


Ain't No Grave

by jhoom



Series: Come Home [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Azazel/Lilith - Freeform, Canon Typical Violence, Dream Sex, Dystopia!AU, F/M, Frottage, M/M, Sam/Eileen (mentioned), Suicidal Thoughts, Top!Benny, Torture, bottom!Dean, zombie!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-03 20:03:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 53,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10974381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jhoom/pseuds/jhoom
Summary: The world falls apart on a Tuesday without much fanfare; the undead walk the earth, and the living must do their best to survive. Castiel's at home when it happens, Dean's at work, and the two are unlikely to ever see each other ever again.  Dean does his best to survive in this post-apocalyptic world, doing terrible things and living with the knowledge that his husband and son would hate him if they saw what he’s become.





	1. Not With a Bang, But a Whimper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys :) This is my entry for the [Supernatural Dystopia Bang 2017](http://spndystopiabang.tumblr.com/). I'd like to thank [braezenkitty](http://braezenkitty.tumblr.com) for both beta-reading and tricking me into writing this :P And of course a huge thank you to my lovely artist [spoopernaptime](http://spoopernaptime.tumblr.com/) for their amazing artwork ^-^ The art post is on [tumblr](http://spoopernaptime.tumblr.com/post/161463357316/art-masterpost-spn-dystopia-bang).
> 
> Enjoy this super angsty exploration of what Dean and Benny would get up to in a zombie apocalypse. Just heed the tags and remember that I _warned_ you it'd be angsty (but with a happy ending!). If you're worried about anything you see listed (like the MCD tag), you can always ask me about it and I can let you know more.
> 
> Also, I'm fully aware that gasoline doesn't have the type of shelf life I give it in this fic and that cars would have issues running if they hadn't been used in a while. I'm using general zombie movie rules where that shit works for forever lol.
> 
> And of course, come visit me on tumblr [@jhoomwrites](http://jhoomwrites.tumblr.com). Enjoy!

_There ain't no grave can hold my body down_

_There ain't no grave can hold my body down_

_When I hear that trumpet sound I'm gonna rise right out of the ground_

_Ain't no grave can hold my body down_

— Ain’t No Grave, Johnny Cash

 

It was a regular Tuesday. How the fuck was Dean supposed to know as he drove into work that it was the _last_ regular anything he’d ever get? The traffic was unusually sparse on the way into the city, and he had to pull onto the shoulder twice to allow emergency vehicles to pass. Given the time of day, it was ridiculous to see the lanes heading south so full. Even so, Dean thought nothing of it.

His hour long commute was bad enough already; it was mind-numbingly dull, the same bland scenery passing by as he got closer to the city. At least this gave him something to speculate on: what were the accidents; why were people heading out of the city on a workday; was there some sort of event going on nearby that he didn’t know about? He didn’t have any answers by the time he pulled into Singer Salvage and Repair, and he’d already lost interest. Dean didn’t spare the drive a second thought as he parked Baby and got to work on changing out the tires on a Volvo and detailing a Cadillac.

An hour into the day, Dean and Benny were whistling along with whatever was playing on the radio when the song cut out to a test of the emergency broadcast system. The annoying sounds blared over the speakers, and Dean rolled his eyes before turning off the damn radio. They needed to concentrate, anyway.

Gunshots finally snapped them out of it. One moment they were testing the Volvo’s suspension, the next the shots rung across the shop. The two men shared a look before Dean ran into the back to check on Bobby and Benny went to investigate outside. It didn’t help his nerves at all when he saw Bobby loading a shotgun.

“I was about to tell you something’s going down, but it looks like you’re a ways ahead of me.” If he weren’t so damn tense right now, he’d find the whole thing amusing, but between the shooting outside and Bobby’s somber look, any possible humor he could find in the situation disappeared.

“Something’s going on. It’s all over the news, but they don’t know much.” Bobby stuffed some extra shells in his pockets before pushing past Dean to the shop floor. “People are going rabid, attackin’ and bitin’ other people in the streets. They get shot, beaten, knocked down, and they just get back up and keep comin’. Where’s Benny?”

“Right here.” Benny ushered them away from the wide doors, still open to let in sunlight as they worked. “It’s a mess out there. Guy drove right into a fire hydrant. I tried calling an ambulance, but the line’s busy. I didn’t see who was shooting earlier, but something must’ve happened. There’re people just sittin around, some walking around, a few ran by. Kinda feels like something bad’s brewing and this is just the start of it.”

“Bobby says people got some kinda rabies thing going on, attacking and… biting?” Dean looked to Bobby for confirmation, and the older man nodded. “Sounds pretty bad.” All he knew was what Bobby had told him, but if he felt it warranted pulling out a friggin shotgun, it was bad.

“This just in the city or…” Benny left it hanging, but Dean knew what he meant.

Bobby’s shop was on the outskirts of Richmond, in a large lot technically zoned as being part of the city limits but they were on an intersection that looked like it belonged in some town that was no more than a roadside pitstop for people moving through. It made the lease cheap for Bobby but still got them a decent flow of customers as people made their way to and from work. Perfectly ideal for business, not so much for a crisis. They weren’t so far removed from the city that riots or attacks or whatever the fuck this was wouldn’t leak out and spill onto their doorstep. But if things were localized and not that bad, they could always close the doors and wait it out.

The real issue was their families. Benny lived only half an hour away. If whatever was happening wasn’t just here, but moving outward, Andrea would see it soon enough. Their place was relatively isolated, a large plot that backed up onto the State Park, but that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be trouble. If things got real bad and made it all the way out to Castiel and Henry back home… Dean didn’t let himself think about that.

“It’s all over, not just here. We’re gonna close up and then you boys are gonna head home to your families. Go straight back, take the back roads and all that, everything else is all jammed to hell, and don’t stop ‘til you get there. I don’t care if I’m overreactin’ and making a mountain out of a molehill, you boys do as I say, alright?”

“Yeah, Bobby.”

“Sure thing.”

The three of them made quick work of locking everything up. For once, Bobby didn’t care if they followed the regular procedure of doing a quick inventory and filing necessary paperwork for the day. The man was on edge, keeping his shotgun at the ready as they finally pulled down the huge doors and locked them up. Dean’s hands shook as he threaded the chain through, feeding off of Bobby’s nervous energy and the strange cacophony of sounds. Sirens and honks and now that he’s listening for it, more gunshots in the distance, screams and wheels grinding, all of it so much _louder_ now that he’s outside and listening for it.

Another gunshot sounded and Dean jumped, not just at the noise but at how damn _close_ it was. It echoed in his ears and he clutched at them, half-certain they were bleeding. He heard Bobby and Benny’s shouts too late, getting the wind knocked out of him as he hits the asphalt. Something heavy kept him pinned and pain overtook most of his awareness. His hands and legs where he struck the ground, but the utter agony in his right side made him cry out. Between the sudden nausea overcoming his senses and the harsh choked breaths he managed to draw in, he could barely move or fight against the person now grabbing at his shirt and snarling in his ear.

Suddenly the oppressive weight was pulled off of him and Bobby’s shotgun fired again. Gulping down as much air as he can, Dean rolled over. A woman, her head now no more than mess of pulp on the street, lay at his feet. Her clothes were torn and bloody, bite marks scattered across her forearms with huge chunks of skin ripped right off her. Benny towered over her, an unreadable look on his face. His hands were bloody - he must’ve gotten her off of Dean - but Dean doesn’t understand how such a small woman could’ve knocked him over like that or given Benny trouble.

Bobby stood nearby, calmly re-loading his shotgun. “He alright?”

“Dunno.” Squatting down next to him, Benny looked him over. He ignored the scrapes on his arms and didn’t even bother looking at the new tears in his jeans. When he put a tentative hand on Dean’s stomach, Dean bit back a cry. “Aw fuck,” Benny hissed, hands more gently prodding below his ribs. “Looks like he fell on something, he’s bleeding pretty bad.”

“Shit.” Bobby spit as he came closer, eyeing the streets warily. “Whatever it is, don’t pull it out. It’ll just bleed more. I’ll help you get him into the car.”

The Impala’s closer, so Benny grabbed the keys out of Dean’s pocket and opened up the back seat. Between him and Bobby, they got him in the car in a matter of minutes. There was an abandoned t-shirt up front, and Benny grabbed it and held it tight to Dean’s side. “Hold it there, brother. I’m gonna get you some help, okay?” And then Dean was alone wondering what the fuck his life was.

He slumped against the leather until he was lying down. Dean couldn’t find the energy to sit up properly, but he did his best to keep the cloth pressed into his wound. It stung, but the constant pressure was better than the raw pain of the wound alone. Through the glass, he heard Bobby and Benny talking.

“You get him to a doctor,” Bobby ordered. “Hospital’s a bad idea, take him to a clinic.”

“What about you? You’re not coming with us?”

Silence. “The Roadhouse is off Main Street. I’ll head there to get Ellen and Jo, then we’ll head to our cabin in the woods.”

“You can’t be serious?” Bobby didn’t answer. “We just got attacked by a woman with black eyes. Dean got _stabbed_. We aren’t even _in_ the city, how bad you think it’s gonna be downtown?”

“I ain’t leavin’ them behind.”

“I…” Benny sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I wouldn’t expect you to. Good luck, old man. Stay safe, get out as fast as you can.”

“Likewise.” The two hugged, patting each other firmly on the back before separating. “Now get him to a doctor before he bleeds out all over the backseat.”

 _It’s not that bad,_ Dean wanted to say, but his mouth wouldn’t work and the words didn’t come.

“Don’t strain yourself,” Benny chided as he slipped into the driver’s seat. “Don’t worry, I’m gonna get you help.”

The engine revved to life and the tires shrieked as Benny floored it out of the lot. Every time the car bumped along the road, Dean whined and held himself that much tighter. He took the fact that he hadn’t passed out as a good sign and clawed his way into a sitting position. “Take me home. I don’t need the fucking hospital or a doctor or some shit. I need to get home and check on Cas and Henry.”

“No can do, brother.” Benny headed to the hospital despite Bobby’s warning. “Just sit tight, I’ll getcha some help.”

Any protests Dean wanted to make are lost as dizziness hits him. A quick look down told him the shirt was soaking through. Maybe a doctor wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Lying back down on the cushions, he put his faith in Benny.

There weren’t many cars in the way, most people fleeing the city or speedily heading somewhere else. Even so, within a few minutes Benny slammed on the breaks and made a sharp turn. “Fuck. Hospital’s a no go, there a bunch of those… black-eyed things down the road tearing a car apart. Let’s try the clinic.”

Dean passed out listening to Benny curse and navigate around the city.

\- - - -

“Shit, he looks awful.”

“I know. The neighbors around?”

“If you mean that jackass next door, yeah, I expect he is.” A drawn out pause. “Shit, you’re not suggesting taking him to Azazel, are you?”

“Not much choice, now. Every hospital or clinic I passed on the way back here was impossible to get to or closed. Hell, the one off of 60 was on fire. I couldn’t even take him to his place. There was some kind of explosion on 95, couldn’t make it anywhere near the highway. Easiest just to bring him here where I _know_ there’s a doctor. Let things settle down a bit before we get him home.”

“Benjamin Lafitte,” Andrea scolded, but she had nothing else to say.

Dean’s eyes blinked open. It took a moment for the sight before him to register, but what he saw worried him. He was still in the backseat of the Impala, his hands sticky and his shirt matted around the wound to his side. It burned and ached but the pain was constant enough that he could ignore it if he didn’t move. They were out of the city, near the woods if he had to guess.

 _Benny’s place_ , his mind supplied. Between what he saw and what he’d heard, that made sense. More sense than why he’d been impaled and wasn’t at a hospital, but one problem at a time.

The doors opened and Benny got back in the driver’s seat, while Andrea slipped into the back with Dean. She adjusted him so he could lay across her lap and started checking his stomach, using a warm cloth to clean up some of the dried blood. “He’s still bleeding,” she said as she traded out his bloody shirt for a fresh towel. Brushing stray hairs off of his forehead, she sucked in a breath. “He’s got a fever. Baby, this is bad.”

“I know,” he replied, looking over his shoulder as he backed the car out of the driveway. “Why you think I’m willing to put up with that dick Azazel?”

Dean drifted off for a bit, present but unresponsive. Their words washed over him; he heard everything they said, made note of it, but lacked the power to process it right then. Andrea’s touch was soothing even if it stung—the pain was the only thing letting him know he wasn’t dreaming or hallucinating.

“You call Cas?”

“Tried. Sam, too. Couldn’t get through. What’s happening out there, cherie?”

“TV cut out an hour before you showed up. I know about as much as you. The city’s fucked, and it’s not just Richmond. People are dying and then just… getting back up and attacking other people. And then _those_ people die, get back up, and it starts all over again.”

“Well ain’t that peachy.”

“Weren’t you the one saying life around here wasn’t exciting enough?”

“Not what I meant.” The car came to an abrupt stop, jostling Dean and making him groan in pain. “Sorry about that, brother,” Benny said as he put the car in park. “I’ll talk to Azazel, you two hang tight.”

“How you doing, Dean?” Andrea whispered and checked his injury again. “Feels like you’ve got something stuck in there. Azazel gives me the creeps, but he should be able to help. Then we can get you back home to Cas and Henry, okay?”

His heart ached with longing. Cas and Henry were both at home - thank god it was summer and Henry wasn’t in school, he couldn’t imagine how much he’d be freaking out if he thought of Cas having to rescue their son like that - and he was miles and miles away. They had no clue if he was okay or where he was, and the worst part was that he _wasn’t_ okay.

Someone rapped on the window, then the door nearest his head opened. “Azazel’s gonna treat him in his office. Help me get him over there.” Between Benny and Andrea, the two got him out of the car and onto his feet. Walking was out of the question, so they shouldered his weight and guided him to the large two car garage.

He didn’t know much about Benny’s neighbors. He knew the guy was a doctor and ran a practice out of his home. Him and his wife were weird—he remembered hearing that after some block party a few years ago, but he’d never met the guy himself. Benny was a good judge of character, so if he didn’t like the guy, that was enough for Dean to not like him. The fact that he hadn’t come out to help move Dean up the stairs that lead to the addition above his garage spoke volumes.

Not that Dean could really turn down a doctor willing to help him.

As gingerly as they could, they set Dean down on the exam table. Once their support was gone, Dean collapsed and shifted only enough to ease the pressure on his right side.

A man that Dean could only assume was Azazel stepped forward and prodded at him with gloved hands. “Got something jammed in there,” he said as he none too gently poked his fingers into Dean’s wound. Dean gasped and cried out, jerking away from the intrusion. “I’m going to have to take it out and stitch him up. I don’t exactly do surgery here, so I can’t put him under. Ben, could you—”

“It’s Benny.”

Azazel stopped mid-sentence and gave Benny a look that said how little he cared for being interrupted (and how little he cared for the correction). “ _Benny_ , could you hold him down while I work? He looks like a screamer.”

Dean was probably imagining it, but the guy looked way too happy at the prospect of Dean screaming.

Out of spite, he kept quiet the whole time the guy worked, with only the occasional grunt breaking the silence, and barely struggled against Benny’s grasp. Andrea was there too, holding his hand and keeping up a steady flow of encouragement. The last thing he remembered before passing out is her words reassuring him that everything was going to be alright.

\- - - -

Bright sunlight poured into a window when Dean woke up. It was impossible to tell how much time had passed, but it was definitely a new day. Absentmindedly reaching up to rub his face as he yawned, he felt what was certainly more than a day’s worth of stubble. Great.

He felt woozy. Medicated. Heavy limbs wouldn’t cooperate and let him get out of the damn bed—whose fucking bed was this, anyway?—to find his clothes and get the hell out of here. None of his memories made much sense, but there was an overwhelming _need_ to get home and check that his family was okay.

Staying still kept the world from spinning, so he took inventory of what he could see without moving. It was a small bedroom with two narrow twin beds. His legs were practically spilling over the edge of his bed, and the other had rumpled sheets. He must have a roommate. There wasn’t much else in the way of furniture, and everything was neutrally decorated and devoid of personality. A guest room, most likely.

A few more minutes and Dean felt more in control. Maybe he should get up, find out more about where he was. He struggled against the sheets, side screaming in pain with every movement, and almost got a foot out of bed when the door opened.

“Hey, take it easy.” Andrea crossed the small room with a few strides. She pushed him back down onto the bed far too easily, nailing home just how weak he was. “Don’t want you to tear your stitches.”

“Fuck,” he rasped. His voice was coarse from disuse and Andrea handed him a water bottle. It took a few tries before he could hold it steady enough to drink anything, but it did wonders for his parched throat. “What happened?”

“When you fell back at the shop, you must’ve landed on something. There was this huge metal nail, nicked your liver or something. You had a fever for a bit, which was scary, but it died down once Azazel got some antibiotics in you. You’ve been out of it for the past week. Lucky for us, Azazel had some IVs to keep you hydrated, but you’re probably pretty hungry.”

He was, but he didn’t think he’d be able to hold anything down. The mere thought of food made his stomach roil. “So basically, I almost died.”

Andrea shrugged. “Considering it’s the end of the world, that’s not so surprising is it?” She squeezed his arm. “Sorry, didn’t mean to get all morbid on you. Whatever you remember from before, it’s just as bad now, if not worse. Every night there’s shooting, every day there’s huge clouds of smoke drifting from the city. The one time Benny and Tom went out to go to the store, they came back covered in black blood from those… whatever the hell they are.”

“Who the fuck is Tom?” He motioned for Andrea to help him sit up, and together they managed to get him propped up against the headboard.

“Tom’s Azazel’s kid. One of them, anyway, he’s got a daughter, too. We’re apparently not the only ones taking advantage of Azazel’s hospitality right now.” The way she said ‘taking advantage’ made it sound like she was repeating someone else’s words. Whatever was going on with their current living situation, Andrea wasn’t happy about it.

“You guys could’ve gone back to your place—”

“Hey!” she snapped, pointing a finger at Dean. “None of this apology bullshit you Winchesters are so good at. You’re our friend. We’re sticking with you.” Her eyes darted to the door as she leaned in and added, “And there was no fucking way I was leaving you here alone with these fuckers.”

Andrea had always been fiercely protective of Benny, and it warmed Dean’s heart to hear that she cared about him too. Of course all it did was remind him of where he needed to be.

“Cas?”

She flinched and smiled apologetically. “Phones are still down and there’s no internet. Benny tried to drive down there, but had to turn around because of how clogged up the roads were. With, you know, cars and accidents and hordes of dead people trying to eat him.”

“... If I hadn’t seen Bobby shoot a woman, I’d think you were fucking with me.”

“Wish I was, Dean-o. Wish I was. But hey,” she clasped his hands, “I’m sure Cas and Henry are fine. Your place isn’t as remote as ours, but it’s a quiet neighborhood. Things haven’t been bad here—it’s only when we go to more populated areas. Cas is smart, he’ll figure that out and hunker down ‘til you get there.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.” Was she? What if Cas was trying to come to him? What if the house was attacked? What if Cas had been out running errands when the world went to hell. What if—?

Taking a deep breath, he stopped himself from falling into that downward spiral. There was nothing he could do. He couldn’t fucking stand up on his own—, no way he was going to drive down there right now. All he could do was sit tight, heal up, and pray to a god he didn’t really believe in that his son and his husband were there waiting for him when he got home.

“So what’s the plan?” he asked. “I get it if you two don’t wanna try and make the trip home with me, but if you’d be willing—”

“Easy there tiger. Benny’s going to try and head south again in a few days, see if things have quieted down at all. _You_ aren’t going anywhere until you can actually stand up under your own power. So the plan is that he’ll go, I’ll stay here with you, and he’ll bring Cas and Henry back up with him.”

“I can sit in the backseat!” Dean protested.

Andrea’s face went dark and she turned away. “And if this were a fucking road trip, that’d be great Dean. But Benny’s seen those black-eyed fuckers up close a few times. If you can’t defend yourself, you’re a liability. Benny can take care of himself. Cas can take care of himself. The two of them can take care of Henry. But if either of them’s gotta worry about you too—”

“Fine,” he cut in. “Now get me out of this damn room.”

He couldn’t remember anything since being on Azazel’s table, but just knowing he’d been in here for a few days was making him stir crazy. The longer he was up, the more his appetite returned. If he could join everyone for lunch, it’d kill two birds with one stone. Andrea made a half-hearted attempt at protesting, but once she saw there was no talking him out of it, she called Benny for help.

Benny was clearly glad to see Dean awake (“Better than you mumbling nonsense in your sleep.” “... What kind of nonsense.” “Let’s just say, I never knew you and Cas were so kinky.”) and helped him navigate the unfamiliar house. Azazel’s place was easily twice as big as Dean’s home back in Lawrenceville. They passed numerous doors before reaching the large staircase leading down to the main floor. Even there, they had to criss cross between a living room, a den, and a library before they found their way to the kitchen.

“Well, well, well, look what the burly cat dragged in,” said a young woman leaning against the counter and sipping from a steaming mug. “Sleeping beauty returns to the land of the living, only to find it filled with dead people walking around like they own the place. How depressing.”

Dean bit his tongue to hold back a groan as Benny helped him into a seat at the table. The walk hadn’t been particularly long, but Dean felt exhausted. It was a relief to sink back in the chair

“And who the hell are you?” he barked at the brunette.

“My, aren’t we rude to our hosts.”

“He’s just in a mood,” Benny said before Dean could say more. “Dean, this is Meg. She’s Azazel’s daughter.” Meg winked at him over the edge of her mug. “That’s Tom.” Benny pointed to a young man a few years older than Meg, fiddling with the gas stove and barely acknowledging them. “You’ve met Azazel.” The man in question stepped forward from the pantry. “And this is—”

“Lilith,” the blond woman sitting across from him said, leaning across the table to shake Dean’s hand. She looked like she wanted to devour him whole, but he repressed the need to shudder and pull his hand away. “Azazel’s wife.”

“Charmed.” His voice probably conveyed he was anything but. Two minutes in, and he was starting to get why Andrea and Benny didn’t like these people. There was something… _off_. “Thanks for taking care of me.”

“It was our pleasure.” The way Lilith said pleasure made Dean incredibly uncomfortable. “You must be starving, let me pour you some juice and get you some food.”

It didn’t get any less awkward from there, but once the meal was done they split up and Dean didn’t have to deal with the strange family.

Dean fell into the household’s routine quickly enough. Walking and standing for long periods of time weren’t really an option since he fatigued too quickly. That left him lazing around the house, forced to keep Lilith company as she cooked. He helped peel potatoes, but mostly he was stuck listening to the woman go on and on about the trashy romance novels she was reading while she occasionally winked at him suggestively.

Slowly he got better, though. His endurance increased and the pain lessened. He was probably weeks away from a full recovery, but the progress was encouraging. Every little bit meant he was closer to getting Cas and Henry back. He wanted to prove he was well enough for Benny to leave him behind with Andrea. Any day now.

When Benny mentioned at breakfast a few days later that the three of them would be heading back to his and Andrea’s place now that Dean was better, he was overcome with relief. This place weirded him out, and he longed for the familiarity of Benny’s guestroom.

“Not a good idea,” Azazel said as he buttered up a roll of bread. “You should stay here. Got a lot of extra rooms that could use fillin’. With all the crazies and dead people walking around, we’d be stronger together than apart. Plus, Dean’s not recovered. Wouldn’t want to put any unnecessary strain on him, moving him too soon.”

It didn’t sound like a suggestion to Dean, more like an order, and when he caught Andrea’s eye, he could tell she was thinking the same thing.

“Thanks for the offer.” Benny, ever the diplomat, actually sounded thankful. “But we’d prefer to be at home. It’s not so far, I think Dean’ll manage the trip just fine.”

“Aw, but who’s going to help me in the kitchen,” Lilith purred as she reached to place a hand over Dean’s. He yanked it away before she made contact, balling it into a fist in the safety of his lap. She wasn’t the least put out, though. If anything, her unctuous smile grew wider.

It took all of Dean’s willpower not to grind his teeth together as he answered, “I think you’ll survive without me.”

Azazel either didn’t recognize or didn’t care about the growing tension between the two groups. “Suit yourselves. But our doors are always open.”

They packed up the Impala—not that there was much to pack other than some meds for Dean and the backpack of supplies Benny had gotten while out exploring with Tom—and left a few hours later. Andrea relaxed with each passing yard. Only a mile from home and she’d complained it felt like she was on the damn moon.

Dean could relate; Cas and Henry might as well be in another fucking dimension right now. He tried not to think about that, though. If he did, he’d remember that this was the longest he’d been away from Cas since college, and the longest he’d been away from his son since they day Henry was _born_. If he thought about that, he’d break down crying and never find the strength to keep going.

The gravel road leading up their long driveway seemed bumpier than usual, but damn if Dean wasn’t relieved they were almost there. He longed for the familiar house; the guest room he’d spent plenty of nights in, a kitchen he actually knew his way around, the garden with the sunflowers Cas had transferred over from their own home. But then they rounded the last turn and any hopes they had of finding sanctuary here were gone.

There was something off about the house, that much Dean could tell even from a distance. The closer they got, the more obvious it became that the place had been completely ransacked. The door was hanging by its hinges, the front windows were smashed in, and a trail of Andrea and Benny’s belongings lead to the road. The Impala swayed a little as they drove over a discarded pile of clothes.

Benny came to a stop right by the entryway, staring at his home in complete shock. “Fuck,” he hissed as he killed the engine. “Should’ve come back to check on the place earlier.”

Dean’s mouth was open to apologize for them being away in the first place, but Andrea held up a hand to shut him up. Turning to her husband, she asked, “So what do we do now?”

“What else can we do? We go back to Azazel’s.”

Andrea licked her lips deliberately to buy some time. It was a habit of hers whenever she was angry and trying to hold back from saying something she’d regret. It was impressive how easily she could keep control like that. “Or we could go to Dean’s place.”

“He can’t travel that far yet.” Benny’s tone was flat as they rehashed the old argument. Dean had only been up a couple days, but he’d heard them arguinggoing at it in hushed tones every night. At this point he could probably argue on Benny’s behalf, he knew his points so well. “Plus, the roads are a mess. It’d probably take us days to get down there, and that’s assuming we don’t run into deadies. We don’t have any food or water, barely have any weapons, don’t have enough gas to get out of Chesterfield—”

“ _Fine_. But if we’re going back to that hell hole, I’m at least getting my own damn stuff to take with me.” With that, Andrea forced her way out of the car. Slamming the door shut behind her, she stomped into the house through the broken door, golf club at the ready. Dean hadn’t seen Andrea in action, but he was pretty sure she could fuck people up—living or dead—pretty easily. The way she carried it made him think she was just _hoping_ there were some looters or undead left over so she could vent her frustration.

Benny shook his head and cursed under his breath. “Love that woman, but wish she weren’t half so stubborn.”

“If she weren’t so stubborn, you wouldn’t love her half as much,” Dean laughed. “You know you like her keeping you in line.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” He grabbed the baseball bat he’d kept with him as a weapon and turned around to face Dean. “You good here while we see what we can salvage?”

“I can help—” He shut up when Benny rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I’m good.”

It didn’t take long for Dean to get bored of waiting in the car. He was tired of this kid’s table bullshit; he was hurt, but he wasn’t fucking _useless_. Looking around to make sure the coast was clear, Dean shuffled out of the Impala and went into the house.

“You guys need help?” he called from the living room. It actually didn’t look that bad in here. A bit messy, sure, but still liveable once they got the glass cleaned up. Not that they had a way of _replacing_ the windows right now, but still.

“Here,” Andrea said as she appeared from the garage. She handed Dean a heavy metal shovel. He gave it a few experimental swings; each swing was a little sloppy and was accompanied by a twinge of pain radiating out from his right side. He kept trying, hoping he’d get better at it, but it got worse the more he tried.

Apparently having seen enough, Andrea rolled her eyes and snatched the shovel from him mid-swing, giving him her golf club instead. “This might be more your speed right now.”

“Thanks,” Dean mumbled. The golf club was a lot easier for him to get a good swing in, but it was embarrassing that he wasn’t strong enough yet to use the damn shovel. He once dug out a whole friggin’ tree stump for fuck’s sake, now he could barely lift the damn thing.

It didn’t take long for them to pick their way through the house. Whoever had broken in had stolen necessities like food, medication, and clothes. All the valuables were still there (though how useless was a big screen TV right now?), and Andrea put several photo albums into the trunk. Benny salvaged some blankets from the attic and Dean grabbed some of the nicer pots and pans.

After they got back in the car, Andrea turned around and handed Dean a picture.

It was from Benny and Andrea’s wedding a few years ago. It was him and Cas in their suits and matching ties. Dean was holding Henry, only three at the time, on his shoulders. The fall wedding had been chilly—Dean distinctly remembered that because he’d complained the whole time. Cas had sat there smugly during the outdoor reception, pointedly fingering the edges of his trenchcoat and commenting on how it was a good thing _he’d_ dressed warmly enough.

Dean had lost his wallet in the escape from Richmond and his phone had long since run out of juice. Right now, this was the only picture he had of his family. He clutched it to his chest and gave a half-smile to Andrea. Her eyes were sad, no doubt seeing his own pain, but she smiled back at him.

At least he’d have a reminder of what he had waiting for him back home.


	2. Survival of the Fittest

As they said they would, the Masters family welcomed them back with open arms. They nodded sympathetically when Benny explained what had happened and offered them the same guest room as before. Suddenly the offer of larger accommodations was gone, and the three of them shuffled back into the small bedroom.

No matter what Azazel said or did after that, nothing could shake Andrea's dislike of him. She never said it, but Dean got the impression she thought he was involved in what'd happened to their house. Dean didn't really buy that, but he could understand Andrea's distrust. The family was weird, or at least Lilith and Azazel were, and they rubbed Dean the wrong way.

Not two days back, Tom laid out a map on the kitchen table and started marking off areas of Chesterfield that they’d already explored and places he wanted them to hit up the following week for supplies.

“The library’s a total shit show,” he said thoughtfully, chewing the cap of his sharpie. “All the roads leading that way are crawling with dead people. But if we could skirt around it through the neighborhoods and get to the shopping center—”

“You don’t think the police are gonna be upset with you looting the stores there?” Dean cut in.

“No,” Tom replied blandly. “The cops are too busy protecting their own families. They gave up trying to keep things under control while you were passed out in that bed. Fuck, the government’s big solution was to bomb the shit out of Richmond on day two, and that was the last time something even close to organized government did shit for us.”

Dean’s eyes darted quickly to Benny—Bobby had been in town, for fuck’s sake!—but his friend looked grimly at his breakfast. Tom didn’t seem to notice Dean’s distress and kept going. “So I think I’ll go around from the north with Benny, and Andrea and Meg could go from the south. I doubt we’ll both get there, but we can figure out which way’s easier—”

“What makes you think I’m going with you?” Andrea cut in. Unlike after Dean’s interruption, all eyes fell on Andrea as she glared at Tom.

“Uhhh…” Tom looked to his father for support, who stepped in with a smile that was a little too unctuous for Dean’s liking. And Andrea’s, too, if he wasn’t mistaken.

“Well, it’s our home, isn’t it? You’re guests here. It’s only right that you earn your keep. You can’t just stay here, eating our food and benefiting from our protection without putting in some work of your own. Tom and Meg are out there, and they’re just kids.”

Andrea eyed the two ‘kids’, probably noting that they were each into their mid-twenties at least. “You saved Dean and didn’t ask for anything.”

Azazel shrugged. “Dean was dying. I’m not a monster, I wouldn’t just let a man _die_ when I could save him. Besides, that was before the world prematurely came to an end. Now I’ve got to be more practical, can’t just let people stay here out of the goodness of my heart. You want to stay, you gotta work for it.” Then, as an afterthought probably meant to appease Andrea’s growing rage, he added, “And obviously I don’t expect Dean to go out on supply runs just yet. He’s still recovering, and there’ll be plenty of time for that later.”

Without another word, Andrea pushed up from the table and stormed out of the kitchen. Benny muttered an apology before following after her. If Dean had the strength to actually _run_ , he’d do the same, but as soon as he shifted to get up dots took over his vision and his head went fuzzy. It left him with the awkward position of accepting Lilith's attention while trying not to throw up his breakfast.

As soon as he could go a whole day without a dizzy spell, he was getting the fuck out of there and taking Benny and Andrea with him.

Andrea and Meg returned from the supply run first. They hadn’t been able to get out of the neighborhoods, even on foot. The roads were blocked by accidents and actual barriers people had put up to divert traffic, and the closer they got to the town center, the more undead they had to deal with. Andrea and Meg were both covered in thick, black blood, though Andrea looked very pissed off about it while Meg looked like she’d had the time of her life.

Wiping off her gore-covered softball bat, Meg had laughed at Dean’s disgusted expression. “All these years of playing nice, it’s a little cathartic to be able to swing this thing and mean it.”

The two disappeared out back to hose off before showering. The city water had cut out, but the house itself was set up for well water. The water pressure sucked, it never got hot enough for Dean’s liking, and there wasn’t enough for more than a ten minute shower at a time, but it sure beat bathing in the creek out back.

They’d both cleaned up and twilight had settled before the sound of the front door opening interrupted dinner, letting them know Benny and Tom were back. Andrea perked up and pulled out the chair next to her in anticipation of her husband, but they all tensed when far too many footsteps echoed down the hallway. Meg reached for her bat, ever present at her side, Azazel reached for the pistol he always hinted he carried but that Dean had yet to see, and Lilith grabbed a cleaver.

“Look who we found,” Tom called just before leading a group into the kitchen. He stopped short when he saw all the weapons being brandished, though he seemed more amused than actually threatened. “You guys are too uptight. You’d think it was the end of the world or something.”

Benny shouldered past him and went right for the chair Andrea had waiting for him. His lips were pressed into a thin line and he was covered in dirt and grime (and thankfully no blood). That was enough for Dean to dislike whoever the hell was joining their little apocalypse party. Listening to their introductions only served to confirm that.

They’d gotten farther into town than the girls did, mostly because they’d had a car and done a better job of avoiding notice. The roads were clear everywhere but the city center, where there was nothing but abandoned cars and accidents clogging the city’s major arteries. Chesterfield wasn’t that bad, but Tom had used his binoculars to check out the way north, and it was a nightmare. As long as they avoided Richmond and the highways headed that way, there was room to get a car through… except for the fact that there were literally hundreds if not thousands of undead roaming the area.

When the military had bombed Richmond, it’d added greatly to the numbers of undead in the area. They were coming from that direction in droves. Over the past few weeks, everyone with the exception of Lilith and Dean had been out there killing them - and they’d learned early on, the only way to kill someone who was already dead was to destroy their brain - yet more and more were coming. The aftermath of the first few days when everyone was taken by surprise would likely continue to fuck them over and make travel impossible

Benny was completely crestfallen when he admitted things were getting worse. He avoided eye contact with Dean as he said it, knowing all too well what that meant for their plans of getting to Cas. Dean’s heart fell at the news, but it wasn’t unexpected. Andrea and Meg had already said as much, this was simply further confirmation.

The real surprise, however, were the three men crowding in the entryway of the kitchen. They’d apparently run into some friends of the Masters family on their way back, friends who were likely going to be staying in the house with them.

There were the twins, Zachariah and Uriel. How the fuck _they_ were twins, Dean had no idea, but he kept his mouth shut because the last thing he wanted to do was stir up shit. They were members of the same church as Azazel, religious men with crosses worn around their necks. Strange, since Dean hadn’t seen so much as a bible since staying here. Tom had invited them to stay with them, and even though Dean wasn’t exactly thrilled with their sour expressions and the sneers they directed his way, they looked like they’d do a decent job of holding down the fort. Maybe now Andrea wouldn’t have to go out there and get her hands dirty if the broad-shouldered men standing in front of them picked up some of the slack.

The third new member of their group didn’t look like much. He was tall and gaut and had a look to him that gave Dean the heebie jeebies. With every word he spoke, his voice gave Dean chills. Selfishly, he hoped the man wouldn’t be staying. Just passing through.

That hoped died the second Azazel embraced him and introduced him as his brother. Alastair Masters.

Over dinner, they were subjected to an impromptu sermon from Zachariah. The old man went on and on about how God was purifying the land of the wicked, who were rising up as demons to be vanquished. Only the righteous would survive. They must hold strong, keep their faith and rid the land of this pestilence—

“Did you really just call them demons?” Meg drawled. Admittedly, Meg was Dean’s favorite of the Masters family. She shared some of her father’s gruffness and her mother’s tendency to flirt inappropriately, but she was spunky and seemed relatively level-headed.

“What would _you_ call them, Miss Masters?”

“Let’s lose the Sunday school routine, alright? None of this Miss Master’s crap. I’m just Meg from here on out.” Like he said, Dean kinda liked her. “And I don’t care what the hell you call them, but demons sounds a little too…”

“Retarded,” Tom suggested, only to have his mother glare at him.

“Not what I was going for, but close.”

Zachariah scowled at them but didn’t say much more on the matter. At least not then. He made a point of referring to them as demons whenever Meg or Tom weren’t around.

As annoying as Zach and his ‘twin’ Uriel were, they at least were pretty harmless. Sure, they talked a lot, but they were mostly just annoying. Alastair was downright creepy. He was a doctor like his brother—some kind of surgeon in the army. The predatory look on his face when he offered to take a look at Dean’s injury made his skin crawl.

It seemed reasonable enough. Azazel was a general practitioner, not a surgeon; what he did to patch Dean up was never meant to be permanent. It was just a stop gap measure to keep him alive. Alastair was a field medic; he knew his shit, he’d make sure Dean was taken care of. The injury still hurt like hell, so Dean eventually caved and followed Alastair up to the clinic. What did he have to lose?

There was nothing worse than being on that table with Alastair above him, scalpel in hand and restraints holding him down.

Dean wasn’t a wimp when it came to pain, but it fucking _hurt_. Alastair wouldn’t let him have any painkillers because he needed him to be “lucid.” And then he’d cut into Dean. Slit open his stitches and poked around, commenting on how well his recovery was going but how there was still a lot of damage. His liver was inflamed, he said as his fingers pushed in and brushed along the healing tissue. Dean should’ve had a transfusion, he remarked casually as though it were the a comment on the weather, flicking specks of blood off of his fingers.

The whole time Dean grit his teeth and silently begged for it to stop. It was a true test of his willpower to force himself to stay still, to not fight against the restraints or cry out. If he whimpered that was uncontrollable, but he _would not_ scream. His eyes were screwed shut and tears threatened to spill. At some point he must have bitten his lip in an effort to keep from screaming, because he tasted copper in his mouth. The new pain of his busted lip was somehow brilliant relief, something manageable that he could focus on instead of the excruciating pain radiating out from everywhere Alastair touched him.

It went on endlessly, each moment somehow worse than the last. This wasn’t what he agreed to, he yelled in his head. He hadn’t given Alastair free reign to fucking cut him open and do as he pleased. In the end, he passed out and was blissfully unaware of what else Alastair did to him.

Once Alastair was done, he’d stitched Dean back up and given him a hit of morphine and a tetanus shot. The cold liquid flowing through his veins had woken him up, and Dean breathed a sigh of relief. It was over. Thank god. Alastair untied him, idly saying he’d be fine and he’d done good. Once he’d freed Dean, he gave him a bottle of painkillers and another of antibiotics, handwritten note attached to each on how much to take and when. And Dean, as fucked up as it was, had accepted them gladly. Anything to get away from there.

Later, after he’d retched up his lunch and collapsed at the foot of the garage for a good half hour, Dean felt ashamed and dirty. Dean might not be a doctor, but whatever the fuck _that_ was, it wasn’t normal. He wanted to tell Benny and Andrea about it, to share the horror he’d endured and warn them to stay away from the sick fuck. He almost came right out and said it that night, in the quiet of their shared bedroom, but he stopped himself.

Andrea already hated this place, and Benny wasn’t exactly thrilled to be here. If it weren’t for how fucking bad the roads were, they would’ve already risked traveling south by now. Telling them what Alastair did would be more fodder for Andrea’s vendetta against Azazel. Their relationship was already strained; a constant back and forth as Benny did his best to mediate between his wife and the other residents of the Masters household. If Dean told them…

Well, Andrea was fiercely protective of those she cared about, and Benny wasn’t the type to let something like that go. It’d come to a fight, Dean had no doubt, and with Azazel in charge of the only gun and their gang outnumbering them six to one...

So he kept his mouth shut and avoided being alone with Alastair at all costs.

\- - - -

“Alastair’s a weird SOB,” Andrea commented. She was reclining across the back seat of the Impala, and Dean was stretched across the front seat. Dean still wasn’t fit for ‘active duty’ as Andrea not so lovingly called it, and it was her day off. Whenever the two of them got a chance to hang out, they jumped in the Impala and listened to some of Dean’s cassettes. It was their safe place, a place where they could vent without being overheard or judged by the Masters family.

“Yeah?” Dean croaked back, glad she couldn’t see how tense he’d gone at the mention of Alastair.

“They all are, but Alastair’s the worst. Azazel’s a dick, but he’s straightforward about it, y’know? Gotta respect that. Alastair wants you to think he’s just this chill, regular guy, but he’s crazy as a bag of cats.”

Dean grunted noncommittally.

“Don’t tell Benny I told you this, because he thinks I’m misinterpreting things, but I swear to fucking _god_ I saw him slip into Azazel and Lilith’s bedroom one night. Dude did _not_ come out before morning. Those two might be brothers, but there’s some weird dynamic going on there. I don’t know what the hell goes on behind closed doors, but…” She left it hanging, making it very obvious what she _suspected_ went on.

“Okay, yeah, that’s weird,” Dean admitted.

“‘That’s weird’?” There was a flurry of activity as Andrea got up and leaned over the back of the seat to stare down at Dean. “C’mon Winchester, give me more than that. This is some fucked up gossip I’m laying on you, and all I get is ‘hmm that’s weird’?”

He stared up at her and shrugged apologetically. “I’m not saying I don’t believe you, it’s just… hard to believe?”

“There are dead people walking around town trying to eat us, and the idea that Azazel, Lilith, and Alastair get freaky with each other is too much for you?” she asked incredulously. “What happened to Dean Winchester, Gossip King of Singer Salvage? He would’ve eaten this shit up!”

“Sorry. Just not… into it right now.”

Sympathy took over as she reached down and rubbed his forehead. “Aw, sweetie, I’m sorry. This blows so much I sometimes forget it’s a million times worse for you. I get to see Benny every night and know he’s safe.”

“Andrea…” He knew where this was going, and he didn’t want to hear it.

“We’ll do everything we can to get to them, you know that, but you need to be prepared for the possibility—”

 _“Don’t_ ,” he begged. _Don’t burst the bubble, don’t make me think of the possibility that they aren’t okay. That I’m too late, that I’ll never see them again._

She worried her bottom lip between her teeth for a moment before she went on. “I’m sorry, but I have to. If—”

“No!” he snapped. “Unless you’re willing to pack up and leave right the fuck now, you have to stop. You can’t tell me one minute all the rural areas are fine and in the next suggest that my _family_ isn’t safe. You don’t get it both ways.”

“Sweetie… I believe down to my bones that Castiel and Henry are okay. There are what, all of one thousand people in Lawrenceville? Your house is built to survive hurricanes, you’ve got that fence, Cas has your hunting rifle… Never mind that Cas is smart as fuck—and I never bought that happy house husband routine he’s got going on, the dude’s never taken shit from anyone and I know he can throw a punch.

“If anyone was going to be able to survive this alone, it’d be Cas, and we both know damn well he wouldn’t let anything happen to Henry. I’m not much of a gambler, but I’d bet on them. But,” she paused while tracing the leather seams of the bench, “there aren’t any guarantees in life. I just want you to be prepared for the eventuality that they aren’t—Hey!”

She reached over and snatched away the bottle of pills from his hands. He’d been pouring a few into his palm, and she nearly spilled the whole damn thing. There wasn’t a label, but she scowled at Dean nonetheless as he greedily swallows what he’d managed to get out. “You gotta stop with this shit. I don’t like the cocktail of drugs Alastair’s got you on.”

“It makes it hurt less,” he grumbled, pushing up onto his elbows so he could reach for it. Who cared if he wasn’t talking about the pain in his side? If it weren’t for having the pills, he’d probably be dipping into the wine cellar more often than he should.

“I know it does,” she sighed and reluctantly handed it back to Dean. “But it’s going to make you sick. This can’t be good for your liver, which you just got stabbed in, in case you’ve forgotten. I don’t care what those so-called doctors we’re staying with say, you need to take better care of yourself. Keep the antibiotics, lose the pain meds, okay?”

Dean mumbled something under his breath.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

“I said _fine_. I’ll stop with the painkillers, okay? You happy now?” He turned away so he didn’t have to see the sympathy and pity in her eyes.

“So,” he said with fake cheer as he tried to change the subject, “Tom and Uriel are out there clearing the roads. How about as soon as there’s a decent stretch of road free, you and I take Baby on a joy ride? No speed limits or anything. Just us and the open road and maybe a few dead-heads to run over.”

“I’d like that, Dean.” She gave him a sad smile but went along with his weak deflection. “It’s a date.”

\- - - -

“It’s too dangerous,” Andrea hissed in hushed tones. Dean paused outside their room to listen.

“Uriel and Zachariah got here from Powhatan. Alastair’s coming out of Richmond. Small groups are able to get through, and they did it on foot. If it were just me, with a car, I could get to Lawrenceville—”

“Baby, _no_.”

“You’re being selfish wanting me to stay behind. Dean’s family is down there—”

“I know it’s selfish, but you can’t leave. These people…”

“These people have taken us in. These people feed us. These people saved Dean. These people _did not_ break into our house—”

“I didn’t say they did.”

“No, you haven’t said it, but the accusation’s there every time they say something or look your way. Chère, I know you. You’ve gotta let that go. There’s no crazy conspiracy going on to keep us here. They’re strange, but honestly, who gives a shit.”

There was a long enough pause that Dean thought maybe they were done, but then Andrea started talking again, so quietly Dean had to press his ear to the door to hear.

“Benny, I love you, but you gotta listen to me on this. You cannot leave me and Dean here with these people. I feel like I always gotta be on guard around them, and I can’t look after myself _and_ Dean. Push comes to shove, I need you by my side. It’s all three of us who go, or none of us.”

“You know Dean’s not up for the trip yet,” Benny sighed. The bed creaked as someone sat on it. “He passed out the other day. That’s of course ignoring the fact that he hasn’t been out there since this started. He doesn’t have the strength to fight the dead, and he don’t got the knowhow to avoid them. He’d be a liability right now, and I’m not risking you or him out there ‘til he’s better.”

More silence, though the tension was palpable.

“You’re going anyway, aren’t you?”

“I plan on going end of the week. You two’ll stay here, and I’ll bring Cas and Henry back. Then we can get our place fixed back up. Board up the windows, replace the door… Go back to having Azazel and them as neighbors instead of roommates.”

“And if you don’t come back?”

“Then you wait ‘til Dean’s better and you two decide where to go from there, whether it be chasing after me or finding your own place or staying here.”

Dean had heard enough. He backtracked as quietly as possible down the hallway, went downstairs, grabbed a spare blanket from the couch and went outside. And for good measure, because he wasn’t as fucking stupid or useless as Benny seemed to think, he grabbed one of Meg’s bats on the way out. The gravel crunched under his feet as he stomped towards the Impala, and he made no attempt to quiet it. Let the whole house hear him retreating to his car for some fucking peace and quiet. Let them think about how pathetic and weak Dean Winchester was, needing the comfort of a damn hunk of metal.

Throwing open the door, he climbed into the front seat and made himself comfortable. He didn’t fall asleep for hours, but between the Impala and the stars shining brightly above him, it wasn’t so bad.

He didn’t remember falling asleep, but there was no other explanation for the cold, lonely leather of the Impala becoming the soft, familiar lap of his husband.

“Cas,” he whined, as he buried his face in his legs. “Miss you.”

“I know,” Castiel answered. Fingers gingerly massaged his scalp and Dean was in heaven. “We miss you, too.”

“You’re still alive, right?” Dean whispered. That should’ve tipped him off it was a dream, the fact that he could voice his fear at all.

“I hope so, but I don’t know. You’re alive though, and that’s something.”

Cas’ hands worked their way down to his shoulders. Sighing happily, Dean relaxed under his husband’s touch. “I don’t want to do this without you, babe.”

“I know. That’s why you haven’t come looking for us yet.” Dean’s head snapped up but Cas shushed him, guiding him back down and continuing to stroke along his spine. “It’s okay. You’re scared of what you’ll find if you come home. Right now, when you’re miles away, it’s easy to pretend. But if you come back, you’ll know for sure.”

“It makes me sound like such a cowardly piece of shit when you put it like that.”

“I know protecting and providing for those you love is something you pride yourself on, but it's okay to be afraid. The world's not what it used to be. Give yourself a little credit.”

“You were always too good for me, you know that?”

“So you’ve said.” Castiel smiled down indulgently at him. Cas was never more beautiful than when he smiled, and damn if Dean didn’t miss him. “Do what you need to do, Dean. I want you with me, but I want you safe more than anything else.”

“I want to be safe _with you_. I want _my son_.”

“You know I’ll keep him safe as long as I can. You’ve found this place where you’re relatively safe, what makes you think I haven’t done the same? You’ve got the Lafittes and the Masters, who’s to say I’m not boarded up with the Chambers family and the Fitzgeralds?”

“You’re just telling me what I wanna hear,” Dean whined. Of _course_ he wanted it to be true, but he needed to _know_.

“Maybe. This is _your_ dream, after all. But take care of yourself and come when you can. There won’t ever be a good time with things the way they are, but there will be a _better_ time. Wait for that, and come for us.”

If he dreamed anything else that night, Dean didn’t remember it upon waking. All he knew was that he’d slept better than he had in ages, despite the slight crick in his neck. It became a thing he did, sleeping in the Impala. He claimed it was to give Benny and Andrea some space, but really it was because he liked feeling closer to home.


	3. Family Ties

Dean kicked dirt off his boots at the front door. Injured or not, he couldn’t keep inside all damn day. He went for walks around the house, never straying too far in case he got a cramp.

“Where you been, homefry? Out fighting the good fight against the _zombies_?”

Dean stopped dead in his tracks and turned around to follow the sound of Meg’s voice to the library. The library was impressive in size but seriously lacking in reading material. Sure, there were plenty of medical journals and a shocking number of harlequin romance novels lining the shelves, but the amount of actual literature was depressingly low. There were a few books that both Tom and Meg had obviously read in school, but other than that there wasn’t much.

Once they found out they were staying here, Dean had begged Benny and Andrea to grab any and all books they could find whenever they combed through empty houses for supplies. He wouldn’t be surprised if neither bothered looking at the titles, just stuffed them in a bag to sort through later. Thanks to their help, he’d amassed a decent collection, but so far he hadn’t come across a copy of _Slaughterhouse Five_. As far as Dean was concerned, this room didn’t even deserve to be _called_ a library until it had some Vonnegut.

And there was Meg in the middle of the room, lounging on a beat up leather couch and reading a book. He stopped in the doorway, leaning on the frame and crossing his arms across his chest as he glared at her, but she didn’t bother looking up. Instead she continued to read her book, idly licking her index finger before turning the page.

“First of all, never call me homefry again,” he snapped, though there wasn’t much heat behind it. Of all the Masters family, Meg by far bothered him the least. Tom wasn’t exactly terrible, but he was an uncomfortable reminder of things Dean would rather not think about, so he was as brusque as he could be with the younger man to keep him at arm’s length.“Second of all, what the fuck is a zombie?”

“The re-animated corpse of a dead person. Sound familiar?”

“Sounds French.”

Meg trilled a laugh. “You ain’t wrong there, bucko.”

Without warning, she threw the book at him. He caught it by reflex and looked at the cover. “The Magic Island by W.B. Seabrook. What the fuck is this?”

“The only decent reading material around here. It’s some dude talking about voodoo and raising people from the dead. The Haitians call them zombies.”

“Well, sounds a helluva lot better than Zachariah preaching about them being ‘demons’ and shit.” Dean read the back cover. It actually sounded pretty interesting. He didn’t know what was more surprising, that he’d found a promising book to read or that his and Meg’s tastes lined up. “Not to be judgy, but you’re not into all the schmoopy romance novels?”

Meg snorted before making an overdramatic gagging sound. “Fuck no. The only thing worse than reading that garbage is knowing that it’s responsible for your mother’s ‘sexual awakening.’ On second thought, I lied. The worst part is knowing your mom refers to them as her ‘sexual awakening.’ Real classy lady, that one.”

Another reason he liked Meg: she thought her mother was as weird as he did.

\- - - -

While everyone left the table after lunch a few days later, Benny pulled Dean aside. Told him that he’d packed up the car and would be leaving tomorrow at dawn.

“You sure Andrea’s okay with this?” Dean had very carefully avoided the whole topic with both Benny and Andrea since he’d overheard their argument, though he suspected they’d figured out his nightly forays to the Impala were at least partially related.

“She ain’t gonna chain herself to the car or anything, if that’s what you mean. I’ll take the Impala since the Masters are rather _particular_ about their own cars.”

“Yeah, sure. You uh… you want me to come with you?”

Benny had the decency to look conflicted before answering, “I’d move faster alone.” Translation: your weak ass would just get us both killed.

“Yeah, yeah alright.” His hand automatically went to touch the scar along his side, an ever-present reminder of what was holding him back. “This a secret, by the way? Why all hush-hush, telling me in private?”

“It ain’t a secret per se, but I’m trying not to make a thing of it. I mentioned it to Meg when we went out looking for supplies the other day, so it’s not like it hasn’t come up. I just don’t want to bring attention to it.”

“Why, you worried they’re not gonna let you go?”

Benny sighed and shook his head. “We ain’t prisoners. If I wanna leave, I’m leaving, and none of them are gonna stop me short of tackling me to the ground. But Andrea’s… She don’t like them, and she doesn’t want them knowing all our business.”

“Can’t say I blame her. Telling them outright sounds too much like asking for permission, and Azazel and Alastair would eat that shit up. Mentioning it casually and just fucking doing it makes it clear you don’t answer to them.”

A long pause came between them before Benny asked, “What happened with Alastair? Cuz I don’t like him or anything, but you… you _actively_ dislike the man. I’ve seen you walk into a room, see him there, and turn your ass right around.”

“It’s nothing.”

Benny snorted but luckily let it go. “If you say so, brother.”

That night, Dean took his blanket out to the Impala and huddled in the backseat. He’d dreamed of Henry or Cas every night out here, and he was eager to see what he’d get tonight. He’d already gotten to relive Henry’s first baseball game, a quiet family dinner where they’d grilled on the deck, and the first time he and Cas had had sex in the Impala. Staring at the picture of the three of them at Benny’s wedding, he fell asleep.

A twig snapping startled him awake. Dean stretched, foot kicking hard into the door and making a dull _thump_. Good thing he’d slept in his boots tonight, or that would’ve hurt like a bitch. Rolling over to face the bench, his eyes were blinking shut when something banged against the window.

Dean would’ve ignored it, but the bang happened again, this time accompanied by a strange rasping sound, something between a wail and a moan but without the proper amount of air put into voicing it. He groggily turned to look and then jumped so hard he fell onto the floor.

When he was attacked outside of Singer Salvage, he’d never gotten a good look. Sure, he’d seen the dead body on the ground, but he’d been preoccupied with the blood pouring out of him. Now, though, he found himself face to face with an undead man. His eyes were completely black, his hair was matted down with blood into thick patches, and now his teeth were grating against the window as he feebly hit against the window again and again.

For five whole seconds, panic overtook him. In the next ten, he went into action.

His view from the left window was blocked, but he shuffled around until he could actually see. There were five, eight, maybe up to ten zombies meandering about the yard. The moonlight wasn’t sufficient to see as clearly as he’d like, but he was confident in that assessment. He’d only attracted the attention of the one, and the others would probably wander off on their own, but two were definitely moving towards the house. He had no idea how strong these fuckers were, but the woman who’d attacked him was absurdly strong for her size. It was entirely possible they’d be able to break a window and get inside while everyone was asleep.

Scrambling towards the front seat, he blared the Impala’s horn in a long, continuous screech. The male zombie was joined by the others in the yard, plus a couple more that he hadn’t noticed before. A light came on in the house, followed by a few more. A flashlight bathed the Impala in light, nearly blinding Dean but doing nothing to distract the creatures clawing at his car.

Content that he’d alerted the house, Dean finished climbing over the bench and slipped into the driver’s seat and turned on the car. He revved the engine a couple times before taking off and mowing down two zombie trying to climb onto the hood. The yard didn’t have enough room for him to do a donut like he wanted to, but he did manage to shake off or hit a fair number of them before he had to screech to a stop. By then, the cavalry had arrived.

It was total chaos in the front yard. Tom, Meg, Benny, Andrea, and Alastair were in the thick of things, going after and stabbing each undead man or woman in turn. Dean turned on the headlights to help everyone see, knowing better than to get out of the car. He hadn’t even brought a weapon out with him tonight—he’d be useless.

Like everyone on the porch. Dean glared murder at the group gathered there: Azazel with his pistol but not lifting a damn finger to help; Lilith hiding behind Uriel, who at least looked like he wanted to fight but was held back by the woman of the house; and Zachariah, cowering behind the door, looking like he was seconds away from slamming it shut if things got too intense.

Fucking cowards.

Andrea fell over in a heap and Dean was tempted to go out to help her. An undead… man? woman? It was impossible to tell anymore, but the thing had lost its legs and was clawing at her feet and mouthing at her legs. She grunted and cursed as she fell to the ground and tried to jerk her legs free.  Dean’d already opened the door when Benny was there, kicking the zombie aside before stabbing a knife right through its eye. The rest of the scene seemed under control - Meg and Tom were going around to finish off the mangled corpses Dean had driven over - so Dean rushed over to Andrea and Benny’s side.

“She okay?”

“Looks like she’s been bit.” Benny gingerly pulled her pant legs up to reveal an angry looking wound, teeth marks visible around the chunk of flesh that’d been pulled out. It bled freely, her socks already soaked and her pant leg sticky to the touch. “Azazel! Alastair!” Benny barked as he put his arms under his wife and lifted her up.

“Let’s get her up to the clinic.” Azazel had slipped his pistol into his waistband and was leading the way toward the garage. “The rest of you do a sweep of the perimeter. Make sure there aren’t any more of them hiding around and figure out how the fuck they got past the fence. And someone tell Zachariah to grow a fucking spine.”

Torn between following everyone to the clinic and helping with the zombies, Dean’s decision was made for him when he got to his feet and promptly collapsed. It felt like a damn asthma attack, but he hadn’t had one of those since elementary school.

“Hey Dean-o.” Meg sauntered over and handed him her bat, then rolled her eyes and wiped off the blood and guts before offering it again. This time Dean accepted it, and she pulled him to his feet. “Everyone freaks out their first time, and you’ve had it easy so far. I mean aside from the almost dying on day one, but hey, who’s keeping score? No shame in freakin’ out or anything.”

His feet wouldn’t quite cooperate and he stumbled a few times, but Meg patiently led him back to the house. “Why don’t you stay here and keep ol’ Zach company while the rest of us take a look around.”

Dean begrudgingly stayed behind. It wasn’t as though he could keep up with them, and he was pretty sure if he swung the bat more than twice he’d either pull his new stitches or tire himself out. Instead of accompanying Zachariah and Lilith into the kitchen, he stood guard by the door, and when that got to be too much, he pulled up a chair and parked himself by the large living room windows. He couldn’t see worth shit in the dark, but it made him feel like he was doing _something_.

An hour or so later, when the first traces of pink appeared at the treeline, Benny came back with Andrea. She was favoring her left leg as she limped towards the porch, one arm around Benny for support, the other making use of a single crutch. Dean opened the door for them, getting a better look at the huge bandage around her calf. He didn’t get a chance to ask her how she was feeling; as soon as they were across the threshold, Benny scooped her up and went upstairs. Only once she was safely in bed, knocked out with help of some meds, did he come back down to talk to Dean.

The bite was awful, nearly bone deep and wide. Aside from the size, it had been a nightmare of bacteria and infection. Alastair and Azazel had had a bitch of a time stopping the bleeding, and then they’d had to clean it up. The zombie had gotten some of its black blood in the wound, never mind the piece of tooth that had gotten lodged in the muscle. They’d have to watch her closely to make sure it was healing, and Benny was already planning an outing to grab more antibiotics.

“How’s the little woman?” Meg asked as she loudly barged into the living room.

“She’ll be fine. Y’all finish out there?”

“More or less. Uriel’s finishing up with the fence. A post got pulled down. That’s probably how the deadies got in. You sure your girl’s alright? Because it’s not like she was Miss Rainbows and Sunshine when she _wasn’t_ hurt-”

“She’s good.” The harsh tone had made it clear the topic of his wife was closed.

“So…”  Meg walked over and wiggled between the two men on the couch. “Guess this derails your heroic plans to venture south and save the gentleman in distress, huh?”

Dean grew pale and turned away, making it seem like he was edging away from Meg’s proximity rather than reacting to her words. Benny’s prolonged silence was answer enough.

“Well, this is awkward,” Meg said, patting their legs and then pushing herself back to her feet. “If you boys need me, I’ll be in my room-”

“Actually…” Benny jumped up to cut off Meg from leaving. “I gotta stay behind with Andrea, but maybe you and Tom wouldn’t mind going for Dean’s family…”

“Hey, yeah.” Dean got up too, albeit not as steadily as Meg or Benny had. He didn’t like the idea of a stranger going on his behalf, but he sure has hell didn’t like the idea of Cas and Henry stuck at home, both them and him imagining the worst about the other. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

Meg put her hands on her hips and eyed the way the two of them had boxed her in. Benny backed up to give her some space and Meg smirked. “Sounds like fun. I’m always up for a good road trip. Where does your boy live again? Prince George?” Dean and Benny shared a look. “Templeton?” Still they didn’t answer. “Blackstone? Any time either of you knuckleheads wants go give me an actual answer-”

“Lawrenceville.”

“Lawrenceville?” she repeated incredulously. “You’re asking me, woman you’ve known a month, to risk my life to travel 70 miles out to middle of fucking nowhere Lawrenceville to rescue some guy and some kid I’ve never met? Is that the gist of it?”

“Yeah.”

Dean was about to apologize for even asking when Meg turned her head and asked, “What’s in it for me?”

“Anything. Name it, it’s yours.” It was a sign of how new this fucked up world was that Dean truly meant it. It hadn’t occurred to him yet how horrible people could be, how low they could sink or the depraved things they could ask for. A year from now, when he’d tower over survivors and hear them beg for mercy, offer anything he wanted, then he’d truly know the awful things he and everyone else was capable of. But not yet.

Lucky for him, Meg hadn’t become that type of person yet, either.

“I like your wheels.”

It threw him for a second, but then he was nodding and reaching for his keys. Money was useless, his house was useless, he had nothing else. What _else_ could he give her? “Sure. She’s all yours. When can you leave?”

Meg’s eyes lit up as she accepted the Impala’s key. “I’ll need to talk to Tom first, and we’ll both need to either caffeinate or sleep for a bit, but we can probably be on our way sometime in the afternoon.”

They talked for a bit more, going through the maps Dean kept in the Impala and plotting out a course together. Benny helped, showing Meg the path he’d intended on taking. Reluctantly, Dean gave Meg the picture of him, Cas, and Henry so that they’d be able to recognize them and so that they’d have some sort of proof they were there on Dean’s behalf. First he wrote a letter on the back of it, telling Cas why he couldn’t come himself, where he was, and who he’d sent. There was so much more he wanted to say, but he ran out of room and had to settle cut his explanation short to fit in a few words of love.

Handing over the picture was a million times harder than handing over the Impala, but he hoped it’d be worth it.

It didn’t take much to convince Tom to go. Meg didn’t even mention the Impala, instead whispering something to him that sounded suspiciously like ‘get away from Mom’ and ‘have some fun.’ Dean ignored the unease he felt growing in his gut; if what he’d been seeing was Meg and Tom _restraining_ themselves, he didn’t want to know what they’d be like on their own.

The four of them packed up a car - the Impala was deemed too loud and impractical for the trip, so they commandeered their parents’ Subaru instead - before they all went in for some well earned sleep. When Dean woke up hours later, Meg and Tom were gone. He worried Azazel or Lilith might be pissed, yet neither seemed particularly concerned. Over the next few weeks if their children came up at all, they’d shrug and say they could handle themselves.

He told Andrea all about it, whispered rumors to her while she limped around the top floor and grew stir crazy. For a while now, Dean had felt completely useless, but in comparison to Andrea he was fit as a fiddle.

It didn’t start out all that bad. Andrea had a limp and her leg was understandably tender. She slept a lot and didn’t eat a whole lot, but she claimed the pain meds made her nauseous. There was even a couple days where she seemed perfectly fine, if not a little annoyed at being immobile.

Then the fever hit.

Neither Azazel or Alastair seemed particularly worried. Infection and fevers went hand in hand, and all they had to do was monitor her, keep her hydrated, and make sure she kept up with the antibiotics. Benny diligently played nurse and scoured every home within the city limits for medication. He even talked Uriel into accompanying him to the pharmacy, though from what Dean understood, that hadn’t gone over well. They’d ended up ditching their car, spending the night in some kid’s treehouse, then hotwiring another car to get back. Benny was a determined son of a bitch and tried a few more times, but even he wasn’t so stubborn that he didn’t know when to quit.

And still, Andrea got worse. She went from flu-like symptoms to being completely incapacitated, barely lucid and babbling nonsense most of the time she was conscious. Soon even Azazel and Alastair admitted they were stumped, unable to explain how she’d taken such a sudden turn for the worse. They checked her injured leg daily. A couple times, Dean caught a peek, and it was horrific. Thick black and red pus oozed from the wound, and dark tendrils crisscrossed her leg. Day by day they edged farther and farther out.

Dean had never had to watch someone die before, but he was absolutely certain that’s what was happening.

Benny didn’t believe it. With manic energy, he continued to care for his wife. Any comfort he could offer, whether it be pilfered pillows and blankets, juice or chocolates, absolutely anything, he’d get it for her. It didn’t matter that she’d stopped asking for anything days ago, he diligently kept at it. Fluffed her pillows, changed her bandages, propped up her left leg, used a cool washcloth to rinse away the sweat, anything to keep from addressing the fact that Andrea was wasting away before his eyes.

“You’ll be fine, cherie,” Benny whispered one morning before heading out for supplies. “It’s just a bite. Remember when we were kids and we’d play wrestle? Couldn’t’ve been more than five or six. I bit you all the time, and you’d whack me on the nose and keep going. You’re gonna get up and keep going after this, too, okay?” He kissed her forehead and stroked her cheek before gingerly opening the door and leaving.

Dean was so preoccupied with pretending to be asleep and giving them their private moment that he actually dozed off again.

Never a heavy sleeper, Dean woke up to a familiar sound he couldn't quite place. First it invaded his dreams, making him uneasy. As soon as his eyes blinked open, he knew something was wrong. He lay there in the too small bed until it finally hit him: that was the same voiceless rasp of the undead.

He jerked up, suddenly wide awake. One must've gotten into the house. But why hadn't he been woken up by someone yelling or a window breaking or _something_?

“Andrea,” he hissed, needing to get her attention but not wanting to be so loud that they’d have an unwanted guest hear him. “Can you get up? We’re going to hide you in… the closet…” Dean trailed off as he turned to find Andrea and Benny’s shared bed empty.

A quick look behind him, he saw Andrea standing in the middle of the room. Her shoulders slumped and her hair was a mess, but that was definitely her. She hadn’t been able to stand in days and hadn’t been able to do it at all without the crutch since she was first bitten, yet there she was. His eyes trailed down to her left leg. It bent oddly and her foot twisted out at an impossible angle, but it held her weight.

“Andrea?” She didn’t react, so he dared to be a little louder. “Andrea, you okay? Your leg—”

She spun around, almost falling but instead using the moment to launch herself towards the sound of Dean’s voice. Two, three large steps and she pounced on him. It was barely enough time for him to see the pitch black of her eyes and the blood dribbling from her lips. His arms came up to block her before her teeth could sink into his neck.

“Fuck!” he grit out, all his energy going into holding her back. He ignored the pins and needles feeling that began below his ribs and raced along his scar, fought through the uncomfortable stretch that came with too much exertion. There was no way Andrea should be this strong, yet Dean couldn’t gain any ground. His left hand held her back by the throat—doing nothing to stop the terrible rasping moan she was making, but at least it kept her from biting him—and with his right he tried to gain some sort of leverage to throw her off the bed. Spittle, tinted with the awful black blood of the undead, dripped onto his shirt as she inched closer and closer to him. Disgusted, he got his legs untangled from the blankets and kicked Andrea away.

Was she even Andrea anymore?

“Benny! Help! HELP!” he screamed as he tried to jump over Andrea. He was already breathless from knocking her away and barely had the energy to propel himself towards the door.

A hand reached up and grabbed him midair, tripping him up and tangling him in the blankets again as he went down to the ground hard. He kicked out blindly and tried to crawl away, feeling nails digging into him through his sweatpants. “BENNY! Fucking hell, somebody _help_!”

In the hallway, he could hear loud footsteps approaching. Within seconds, the door flew open and Dean sighed in relief to see both Benny and Uriel rush in. They pulled Andrea off of him as she snapped and snarled, kicking uselessly in the grasp of the two men. Dean scrambled to his feet and turned around to see if they needed help.

They didn’t.

“Should I?” Uriel asked as he twisted Andrea’s arms behind her back and forced her to her knees. He shuffled his grip so that he could hold her with one hand and carefully pulled a knife from his back pocket. “Or would you rather do it yourself?”

Benny hesitated but took the knife. Uriel’s hand went back to better secure Andrea as she thrashed against him.

“It should be me.” Benny stepped forward to kneel beside his wife. “I’ll do it.”

It took Dean longer than it should have to understand what was about to happen, but as soon as he did, he scrambled to grab Benny’s arm. “What are you doing, man? She’s your wife!”

“Don’t tell me that like I don’t know it,” Benny snapped and roughly pulled out of Dean’s grasp.

“Well you’re about to fucking kill her, so maybe I thought it was a good time to remind you!”

Benny cringed and made a pained face; Uriel didn’t react other to somehow look bored. Andrea continued to hiss and struggle uselessly against Uriel’s hold on her.

“You ain’t been out there, Dean. This isn’t me givin’ up on Andrea, this is me acknowledging facts I can’t change.” Benny swallowed thickly and reached over to stroke Andrea’s cheek. Her jaw snapped at him, slow enough for him to dodge but no less threatening because of it. “Andrea isn’t _sick_. There’s no magic cure. She isn’t gonna get _better_.”

Benny’s hand trailed down to rest on her pulsepoint, then moved across to between her collarbones. Now that Dean was looking, he could see that Andrea’s chest was quaking and trembling, but she clearly wasn’t breathing.

“She’s _dead_ , and no amount of me wishin’ that were otherwise is gonna change it. The only thing I can change is how long she’s stuck as one of these… _things_.”

It seemed so reasonable when he put it like that. Dean fucking _hated_ how reasonable it was. That he’d have to watch his best friend kill his wife. Not kill, he corrected himself. Stab her in the fucking head, bury her, mourn her, but not kill her. He wasn’t sure if it was better or worse this way. For a second, Dean tried to put himself in Benny’s place. The idea was so painful he immediately shut it down, unable to even imagine Cas’ beautiful blue eyes turned black and sightless.

“Let me do it for you,” Dean offered. Benny’s hand tightened around the knife, but when Dean reached for it, Benny let him take it. He didn’t move aside, just stayed there with his hand on Andrea’s chest and his eyes fixed on hers.

Dean had never done this, but he’d heard enough about it to know. Had to be through the brain, or they’d keep coming. Even a decapitated head would growl and try to bite. As gently as he could, he held Andrea’s head in place and lined up the blade just above her ear. He’d do his best to keep it from getting messy, from marring her face and taking away the last pieces of Andrea that were left.

The sound the blade made as it pushed through her skin and skull and brain was _awful_. The initial push was the hardest, then the knife passed through her skull with a slick _crunch_. Once it was in, it slipped in with a hiss. Andrea’s body spasmed once before it grew still, falling into Benny’s waiting arms. The knife was buried to the hilt, but nobody removed it. At least with it in there, with her eyes peacefully closed, it was possible to think she was asleep; if they pulled it out, everything would spill out and there’d be no denying the awful truth.

The room filled with Benny’s quiet sobs and Dean’s too loud breathing. And then Uriel stepped away, boots echoing terribly in the stillness.

“Where are you going?” Dean snapped at Uriel, who was straightening his shirt as he walked out of the room, not even a second spared to express his condolences to Benny.

Uriel eyed Benny meaningfully before slipping into the hallway. Begrudgingly, this didn’t seem like the time or place to have this discussion, so Dean followed and closed the door behind them.

“I have to tell the others what happened,” Uriel said in his usual monotone. “Now we actually _know_ how this _disease_ is passed on, the others need to be warned and precautions need to be taken.”

“And how is it passed on? Since you fucking know so much all of a sudden.”

“Bites.” His tone made it clear how little he thought of Dean’s intelligence. “We’ve been scratched up, breathed on, grabbed, had blood splattered on us... All of that’s happened plenty of times, but she gets bitten and she’s done for inside of two weeks.”

Dean opened his mouth to object just for the hell of it, but he couldn’t find fault in Uriel’s logic. “So… what do we do?”

“Don’t get bit.” And with that, Uriel turned on his heel and continued towards the stairs.

“Well, when you put it like that,” Dean called after him, wanting nothing more than to punch the self-important ass right in the jaw. Maybe someday, but right now he had to be there for Benny.

They drove over to Benny and Andrea’s old place. It was mercifully devoid of activity—undead or otherwise—and they lay Andrea down on the ground and set to work digging a grave in her garden. Even in the short months since the world ended, it had become overgrown; weeds popped up everywhere and the flowers ran rampant. It was oddly beautiful, and the perfect place to bury Andrea.

None of the other residents of the Masters household came with them. Dean was livid but unsurprised. They were unfeeling bastards, using the excuse of needing to get supplies and keep the house defended to stay away. Benny didn’t seem to mind, so Dean kept his mouth shut.

It took them a few hours working in the summer heat, especially since Dean could only work in short bursts before pain and exhaustion made him sit down and rest, but by late afternoon they’d laid her to rest. They placed a cross at the head of her grave and collected flowers to prop against it. Then they sat down nearby, covered in sweat and dirt, and shared a bottle of whiskey. The only thing Azazel had been good for was to offer them some of the remaining booze he kept hidden, though it came with a lecture on how Dean shouldn’t mix pain meds with alcohol.

“You wanna say a few words?” Dean asked as he took a swig from the bottle. It was some good shit, black label Johnnie Walker that burned so good on the way down. The bottle was full, and Dean fully expected them to get fucked up before heading back.

“Nah.” Benny took the bottle and downed a few gulps before settling it between his legs. “I already said everything to Andrea that needed saying. She knew I loved her. She knew I’d miss her. No use in me saying it to her ghost.”

“Amen to that.”

They sat there for a while, watching the butterflies dance among the plants and occasionally land on the fresh grave. Dean didn’t know what to say or if he should say anything at all, so he kept quiet and let Benny have his moment. They kept drinking, sometimes telling stories about Andrea but mostly just soaking in the other’s company. Benny cried at one point, the pain obvious in every sniff and sob he tried to suppress, and Dean’s heart broke for his friend.

Eventually, though, it had to come to an end.

“What do we do now?” Benny asked. His tears had already dried but the raspiness of his voice remained.

As if Dean had any fucking clue. He’d been out of answers the moment he’d heard gunshots outside the shop. “I dunno. Wait ‘til Tom and Meg come back? I can’t leave before that, anyway. We’ll decide then.”

Once upon a time, he’d hoped to move all of them over to Benny’s place. Fix up the busted windows and doors, secure the fences and all that. With the Masters family nearby as support, it was almost as safe as being in the same house as them. Dean didn’t bother entertaining that fantasy anymore. Benny wouldn’t want to stay here. Well, maybe that wasn’t exactly true; he’d stay and live out the dream Dean’d dared to have if that’s what his friend still wanted. He’d come to Andrea’s grave every day and whisper words of regret and leave offerings of fresh flowers. But if Dean knew Andrea at all, that’s the last thing she’d have wanted for Benny. She’d want him to be strong and move on, to go where he needed to be and not live in the past or be bound to this place or any other.

“Alright, brother. You’re the boss.”

The two stayed as long as they dared. If it had been any other time, they’d have stayed all night, but with the property insecure and a long walk back, they left as soon as the sun hit the treeline.

\- - - -

The worst day of Benny’s life was soon followed by the worst day in Dean’s.

He had no idea when he expected Tom or Meg back, but he made a habit of checking out the front window whenever he could. Especially now that he was deemed well enough to go on patrol around the property. They’d found him an old crowbar in the garage that suited him well enough, and every day he’d do a lap around the property line in the morning and again in the evening. It wasn’t often he came across the undead, and usually it was one or two at a time. Easy pickings, even for someone whose gut tightened up uncomfortably when he exerted himself too much.

On one of his rounds, he heard the distinct sound of a vehicle approaching. His heart leapt into his throat and he sprinted towards the house, because in his mind all that car could mean was Castiel and Henry. Their names repeated on a loop in his head, each step bringing him closer to his family. Tom and Meg had been gone for weeks now and now the wait was _over_.

The tan Subaru had pulled up in front of the house by the time he caught up. Meg hung back as Tom unloaded the trunk, stacking up cardboard boxes and coolers. Uriel and a grumbling Zachariah were taking them into the house, and Dean thought he could hear Azazel’s voice directing them from inside the house.

But there was no sign of Castiel or Henry or anyone else.

“You’re back,” Dean huffed as he tried to catch his breath. “Where are they?”

Tom dropped the box in his arms and turned to face Dean, a grimace on his face. “‘Bout two, three miles from the address you gave us, I think it was?” He looked to his sister, who shrugged in answer. Ignoring her, Tom reached into the back of the car and dug around for something. “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but we were too late to help your husband or your boy.”

In his hands, crumpled into a ball, was a tan trenchcoat covered in dried blood. It was soaked through all around the midsection, only parts of the sleeves and collar left unstained. Tom offered it to Dean. It’d be a lie to say his hands weren’t shaking as he reached for the coat. Touching the familiar material pulled a whimper from him, and he snatched the trenchcoat away and held it tight just to ground him.

Tears filled his eyes and his hands squeezed the damn thing so tight it hurt. Everything hurt. Fuck.

“Wh-what…? How…?”

“Found them on the roadside next to some beat up ol’ truck. The kid was tearing into the dark-haired guy. Intestines everywhere. Don’t worry, though. We put them both out of their misery.” He said it so casually, as though he hadn’t just shattered Dean’s entire world.

Tom nodded and awkwardly patted Dean on the shoulder. “Sorry, man. Too bad we couldn’t get there sooner.” He waited for Dean to say something, anything, in response but Dean couldn’t. After shuffling on his feet, he went back to unloading the car.

Vision blurring, Dean felt like he was going to throw up or pass out or just disappear. He really hoped it was the latter.

“We buried them,” Meg said, suddenly right in front of him and handing over the worn picture he’d sent along with them. “And here,” Meg said, slipping the Impala’s key into Dean’s palm along with it. “Keep it. I feel bad taking her when I didn’t live up to my end of the deal.”

Numb, he took it from her. Then it all sunk in at once. Castiel was gone. His son was gone. All he had left of them was a dirty trenchcoat and an old photo. Sprinting, he ran to the Impala. Opened the trunk, stuffed the trenchcoat in the back - somewhere it’d be safe but where he wouldn’t have to see it - then jumped into the driver’s seat. Within seconds, the engine was on and he was out of there.


	4. Blood and Gore

It wasn’t as though Dean had anywhere to go. He barely even got to the edges of Chesterfield before he turned around. No matter how much he hated Tom right now—an unjustified hate, given that the guy hadn’t actually killed Castiel or Henry, just taken down the undead creatures wearing their faces—being there was better than being anywhere else. After a couple laps around the neighborhood, Dean gave in and finally pulled back ionto the long driveway.

Benny was waiting for him. If he thought Dean might leave him behind, he didn’t show it. Instead he held up a six pack for Dean and nodded towards the roof. Without a word, Dean turned off the car and followed.

After the incident in the front yard, they’d mounted a ladder to the side of the house. The roof was relatively flat above the garage and gave a decent view of the property. This was Zachariah’s preferred post, sitting up here where it was safe while keeping lookout. Or at least _pretending_ to be lookout; Dean had caught him asleep in his lawn chair twice already. Now his post is completely abandoned, thank god, making it easy for Benny and Dean to take over.

If this were anyone else, Dean would dread this conversation. There’d be empty words and meaningless gestures, all of it too painful no matter how well intended. Benny’s known Dean long enough that he didn’t bother with the bullshit. He simply sat there quietly, offering Dean beer after beer until they’d run out, and even then he disappeared to get more beer.

“Good thing you’re off the meds,” Benny commented after the second six pack was gone. It was the first thing either had ventured to say, and it broke the fragile silence so completely, there was no way Dean could keep quiet now.

“Yeah. _So_ good. I’m fucking lucky is what I am. Could you believe my luck if I were on fucking painkillers right now? Yeah, that would _definitely_ be the _worst_ possible thing that could happen to me. Thank fucking _gGod_ -”

“I get it. Trust me, brother, I get it.”

Memories of a fresh grave, dirt probably not quite settled, spring to mind.

_At least Benny has a grave to go to. At least Andrea was buried at her home. Cas and Henry are buried on the side of some random road in Lawrenceville._

_Jesus Christ, what the fuck is wrong with me? Like this is a fucking competition._

_We’ve both lost everything, isn’t that enough?_

He offered Benny the last of the beer as further apology, and his friend accepted it. “Fuck, man, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Benny accepted the beer but didn’t drink it, instead tracing the rim of the can with his thumb. “So what’s the plan? We sticking it out here or…” He left it up to Dean to fill in the blanks there.

“Fuck if I know. This wasn’t a situation I ever expected to find myself in.”

Dean didn’t mean the undead.

“You and me both, brother.”

Benny probably didn’t either.

They spent an hour talking it out in hushed voices, hoping their words wouldn’t carry down to ground level or any open windows. They whittled away their own feelings until all that was left were the hard facts: the Masters family had food and supplies; they put a roof over their heads; they were dicks but knew how to fight the undead; travel was next to impossible; neither Benny nor Dean had the emotional strength to leave right now and start out on their own.

“So we’re stayin’?” Benny asked.

Logically it was the right choice.

“Yeah,” Dean sighed as he leaned back in his lawn chair. It was well into the night by now, but clouds obscured everything but the moon. “Guess so.”

So what if it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

\- - - -

Knowing he’d probably never get over losing Cas and Henry, Dean focused on his physical recovery. He dumped the painkillers for good like Andrea had bugged him to, and he even stopped the antibiotics. Azazel showed him some exercises to regain the full range of motion across his torso—Dean’s abs were weak and it was hard to twist in either direction—and Dean dutifully did them every day. Alastair offered to check the scar tissue; Dean shuddered at the mere idea of it. It took a concentrated effort to avoid actually fleeing the room as he declined.

Not that he could avoid Alastair completely, he just didn’t want to be _alone_ with the guy. It became even harder once Dean was deemed well enough to go on supply runs. The house was Azazel’s, so his control of everything there was undisputed. Alastair had field experience with the military, so he took over the supply-run schedule and led a number of the excursions into town.

As uncomfortable as it made Dean to have to _talk_ to him (or even be in his presence), he had to admit the guy knew what he was doing. He was brutally efficient at taking out the undead and though Dean wanted to emulate no part of Alastair’s personality, there was admittedly a lot he could learn from him about survival. Without an endgame in mind, Dean figured he should pick up every skill he could, and one skill Alastair had in spades was killing effectively.

He said it was from being a surgeon. Knowing how to put someone back together made it easier for him to know just how to pull them apart. He was brutally efficient with his military saber, barely leaving a mark other than the cuts necessary to decapitate or pierce the skull. It was like a work of art.

The first time Dean caught himself thinking of murder—even murder of an undead person—as beautiful, he went back to avoiding Alastair like the plague. He’d sit on the far side of the dinner table, volunteer to take the opposite side of buildings they were scouting, or really whatever it took not to be alone with him.

And yet… Dean could take down the undead, but it was often slow and brutal. Blood and flesh would fly as he struck again and again, never getting a killing blow in without at least three tries. Over the course of a month, Dean broke two baseball bats, bent every golf club he got his hand on, snapped Benny’s old shovel in half, and even mangled a crowbar so badly he had to ditch it. And how many weapons did Alastair and his protege Tom go through? They still used the same ones they started this damn thing with.

After careful consideration, Dean approached Alastair for help. He asked to learn from him.

“Sure thing, Dean.” The smirk he gave Dean as he agreed made goosebumps rise along Dean’s skin, but he ignored the pit of dread in his stomach. “Just get me a body and I’ll teach you everything I know.”

While the clinic above the garage was still intact in case it was needed, Alastair had taken over the large shed in the backyard. Dean had never gone in there; every time he looked that way, saw Alastair or Tom or Uriel dragging bodies in, Andrea’s voice would whisper scorn and suspicion in the back of his mind.

_“What the hell are those sick fucks up to?”_

_“Alastair got a fetish or something?”_

_“Should burn the damn shed down, keep them from fucking around.”_

Now Dean was invited in. _He_ was the one hauling undead corpses in and laying them on the table. Holding the flashlight up while Alastair cut with precise lines, showed Dean everything he needed to know not just about taking out the undead but how to kill an actual living, breathing person.

All Dean could think about was when _he_ was on Alastair’s table, wondering what thoughts were going through his head as he opened Dean up and poked around inside.

“Why would I need to know that?” Dean whispered, too terrified to say the words louder.

“It’s a dangerous world out there,” Alastair drawled, not even bothering to look up as he pulled the ribs further apart to get a better view of the heart and lungs. “The undead aren’t the only threat. It’s only a matter of time before we run into other people. People who aren’t as _civilized_ as us. People who have let the end of the world take them too far, who would murder us in cold blood if we let them. You should know how to defend yourself against them.”

“So what? We kill them before they have the chance to kill us? Just preemptively _murder_ anyone we meet—?”

“Dean,” Alastair tsked and finally put down the scalpel. “I’m not saying we should _look_ for trouble. I’m just saying we should be _ready_ for trouble when it finds us.”

It didn’t sit right with Dean, but he kept his mouth shut and listened. Whatever Alastair was showing him, it couldn’t hurt to know it. If he never had to use it on anyone but the undead, then all the better.

After he’d shown Dean the basics, he’d gotten Dean to practice hacking away at the corpses until he could do it without flinching. It took less time than he would’ve expected. Something about doing it day in and day out made him desensitized to it. He no longer viewed these as people who hadn’t been as lucky as him. They were just slabs of meat, ones that he could use to vent his frustration at everything the world had taken from him.

Cutting and slicing and watching the blackened blood coalescing at the corners of the table, Dean should’ve been worried about what he was becoming. The outings into the infested town and his trips to the shed to work with Alastair used to fill him with dread, but slowly he found himself looking forward to them. They were something to _do_ , the only thing breaking up the monotony of his days. He couldn’t count the days he’d come back to the house, covered in blood and intestines and filth, but feeling _okay_.

If he couldn’t stand to look at himself in the mirror anymore, well, what did it matter?

\- - - -

Despite how shitty it was, life moved on. More often than not, the early morning chill would bleed into the summer heat. Dean didn’t know if the others were keeping track of the date anymore, but he sure has hell wasn’t. Henry had a summer birthday, he and Cas had a September anniversary; he really didn’t want to think too closely on any of that.

Instead he threw himself into this whole survival thing they’d found themselves stuck in. Learning to take down the undead, figuring out the best ways to navigate around an abandoned city, and prioritizing different types of salvage, well, it kept him busy. There were always more undead to fight, and as long as that remained true, Dean would have his fair share of distractions.

If things had gone the way they should’ve, and he was holed up somewhere with his family along with Benny and Andrea, he’d be able to say cheesy shit like ‘at least they had each other.’ And yeah, he still had Benny, but the two were so emotionally taxed with their own mourning they could barely offer support to each other. Even the Masters family didn’t seem to seek solace in each other’s company. Everyone had their own ways of counteracting the boredom and the madness. Everyone had their vices.

Alastair’s was the most disturbing: he liked cutting up the undead. They all knew it, all saw the evidence of it each week when new bodies were carted back to the shed. The few times anyone brought up how _odd_ it was, Alastair was adamant that he had to ‘keep his skills sharp’ in case they ever needed a surgeon. Most of them gave up trying to rationalize it and let it be, though Benny still glared at Alastair like he was lower than dirt. Dean didn’t necessarily disagree, but it was hard to judge when his hands weren’t exactly clean anymore. He’d spent plenty of time in that shed.

The others dabbled in much more _normal_ hobbies.

Uriel liked cigars. Zachariah did too, or at least he pretended to. The only time Dean ever saw the older man try to smoke one, he’d ended up coughing until he was red in the face. Dean got the feeling he liked the aesthetic and the smell more than the actual act of smoking. Whatever. If he liked coughing his lungs out, that was on him.

For Benny it was flowers; if he could manage it, he’d dig them up so he could transplant them in Andrea’s garden, otherwise he’d just cut them to lay on her grave. It didn’t matter what type they were, as long as they were blooming. More and more Benny would sneak off to go back to his old home, especially on the days when Dean was too surly or quiet to be good company. If Dean were a better friend, he’d do something about that. Offer to go with him or help with the garden project or fucking _talk_ , but most days Dean didn’t feel like a fully functional human being and couldn’t find the energy to put in the effort.

Tom collected weapons; anything from knives and daggers to canes and the set of nunchucks he found. He was so excited when they found a cache of shotgun shells in one house he wouldn’t shut up about it, not even when Meg pointed out they didn’t even have a damn shotgun.

Meg was in charge of the clothes. She viewed every house visit as a personal shopping trip, loading up on all sorts of clothes and spending hours at home tailoring them to fit her better or dying them all sorts of colors. The rest of them wore whatever they found and whatever sort of fit, while Meg sported new outfits every day. Even by non-apocalypse standards, she was unreasonably fashionable.

For Dean, it was liquor, plain and simple. Wine or beer would do in a pinch, though wine was usually taken over by Lilith (who claimed to need it for cooking, but it disappeared at a rate that suggested she’d found more _recreational_ uses for it) and he’d never gotten used to the taste of flat, lukewarm beer. And since his plan was to drink himself into oblivion, liquor was a hell of a lot more efficient.

The only peace Dean could find was in driving the Impala. He’d cruise the abandoned roads—roads he’d spent days clearing just so he’d have the space for a joy ride—until he’d outrun the loneliness. Drinking warm whiskey or whatever shitty rum he’d happened to find that week, speeding along faster than he ever would have dared when there were still rules and people to enforce them; Dean almost felt alive.

Almost, but not quite.

Once he’d grown tired of driving, or more often than not, ran out of road, he’d veer off the road. Find a secluded spot and park. If he was in the mood for it, he’d blast some music and attract some undead to work out some aggression. If he wasn’t, he’d lean back on the hood of the Impala and drink away his pain. More often than not, he’d end up too drunk to drive back, so he’d spend the night in the car, staring up at the stars and pretending he still remembered all the constellations Cas taught him a lifetime ago.

Sometimes, in his particularly weak moments, he thought about driving home. Just to check and see how bad things were. How colossally he’d fucked up by not getting Cas and Henry help sooner. Find the grave Meg and Tom made for his family. But even at his drunkest, he knew that was an exercise in pain.

There was nothing for him back in Lawrenceville, and little for him here. And honestly, he much preferred the life he’d pieced together for himself here than the agony he had waiting for him back there.

\- - - -

Dean and Meg had set up a make-shift ping-pong table in the dining room. It was really the dining room table with a roll of toilet paper as the net and books as the paddles. They’d started with seven ping pong balls,leftovers from Meg’s beer pong stash, but were down to three. They kept ripping shots to try and beat each other, and occasionally they split apart. Casualties of war, Meg liked to call them.

Dean and Meg were the only ones who played, and they did so about once a week. They kept score on the wall, and currently Meg was up 142 wins over Dean’s 138. He planned on making up the difference today.

“Getting predictable,” Meg teased as she deftly handled his serve. “Never gonna catch up playing like this.”

Before Dean could comment, the back door opened. Loud footsteps echoed through the hallway as they beelined right towards him and Meg. Even when someone stood in the doorway, blocking the sunlight filtering in through the kitchen, they kept playing. Apparently not liking to wait, the person strode over and snapped the ball out of midair.

“Hey!” Meg snapped. “I was going to win that one.”

“Sure you were,” Tom said. “Dean?”

It took monumental effort not to roll his eyes or let his shoulders sag. Meg might have no problem talking shit about her mother, but her and her brother were close; he didn’t think he could antagonize one without pissing off the other. He turned to greet the older Masters sibling, fake smile in place.

“What?”

“Al needs some help out back.” Poking his head around the corner to wave at his sister, he added, “You wanna come?”

“No thanks.” She picked up another book, flipping to a page at random. “You boys go play. Have fun without me.”

They made another stop to find Uriel, then headed into the backyard. As they approached the door, Dean could make out muffled sounds. The noises were mostly indistinct through the wood, but the closer they got, the better Dean could pick them out. That was definitely the sound of chains and low-pitched groans, but that didn’t make any sense. Alastair normally only dealt with undead— zombies, he mentally corrected, liking that a lot better than calling them ‘undead’ all the damn time— but there was definitely _something_ in there with him.

Well, maybe that wasn’t strictly true. Alastair _usually_ stuck with bodies that were completely lifeless. Made them easier to transport and study if they didn’t have to worry about getting bitten. There had been that _one_ time a few weeks back. There'd been a man, undead and rotting, chained to the far wall. He'd snapped and hissed at them, tracking their every movement with glazed over eyes. Done nothing as Alastair cut him apart piece by piece. Gotten Dean to join in, test just how far they could go while keeping the brain intact and the thing coming after them.

It had been _awful_.

It had been exhilarating.

Maybe that was what he wanted them for now. It was a sick game, playing around with the unde— the _zombies_ like that, but there wasn’t exactly much else to do for entertainment. As much as he hated himself for it, Dean was excited by the prospect. At least if he felt disgusted with himself, he didn't have to feel grief. Those emotions were both so huge, the one pushed out the other.

If only he’d been prepared for what greeted him on the other side of that door.

A woman was strapped to the table, not even cleaned up from the _last_ time Alastair was at work back here. Chains held her firmly in place: legs to each corner of the table, a long chain over her chest, arms tucked in next to them, and a strap keeping her head down. The fact that Alastair could rig up a setup like this didn’t surprise Dean; he was far more shocked when he realized the woman was still breathing.

It was… strange, having to re-evaluate her as a person. When Dean had first seen her, he’d dismissed so many of the details about her. Now he catalogued them all: auburn hair and brown eyes; fair skin, though sunburned in parts; most of her clothes were gone, leaving her in a sports bra and leggings; mouth gagged . Oh, and it looked like she’d been through hell.

The skin around her eyes was tinted yellow as a black eye formed. All along her arms, bruises were taking shape on top of the cuts barely scabbed older. She looked half-starved, face gaunt and ribs outlined too clearly as she took in each shallow breath. As the three of them filed into the shed, she eyed them with fear and struggled against her restraints. It did nothing but earn her a sharp look from Alastair as he sharpened the blade in his hand.

“Went out for supplies this morning. Found her poking around Lafitte’s old place.” Alstair maintained eye contact with the woman as he spoke. Every now and then he’d inspect the point of his knife, fingering the tip and edge before continuing to sharpen it. “Brought her back her for a lil’ chat. Had a set of car keys on her. I sent Tom out to look for a car nearby, but he couldn’t find one. Figure she got dropped off and has other people out there waiting for her. Ain’t that right, sweetheart?”

“This morning?” Dean repeated, looking over the fresh bruises and cuts. “And you’re just getting us now?”

Alastair shrugged. “Thought she’d see reason and talk. She’s stubborn. Gonna have to try more… _persuasive_ tactics.”

Dean shuddered. Vivid memories of being tied down to a similar table as Alastair cut into him had the world spinning and his stomach churning. He squeezed his eyes shut and focused on breathing, in and out, in and out, and not on the world around him.

“Where do we start?” Uriel asked.

“Ungag her. Let’s see if she’s willing to be more cooperative. One final chance to redeem herself before we go further.”

His eyes snapped open when she started screaming. One long, wordless howl as she made as much racket as she could. Within seconds, Tom was stuffing the gag back into her mouth, slapping her to get her to shut up.

“That’s disappointing,” Uriel sighed. “I’ll keep watch outside, make sure she didn’t attract any unwanted attention.”

With one less person in there, the shack felt infinitely less crowded and the air more breathable. Dean felt better within seconds, which lead to a very disturbing realization.

He didn’t feel bad for the woman on the table. He was just glad it wasn’t _him_. As Alastair stepped in close, leaning over to drag the blade lightly against the woman’s exposed abdomen, Dean shivered. Not in fear or revulsion, but _anticipation_.

What the _fuck_ was wrong with him?

Yet when he looked at both Tom and Alastair, he could see his own curiosity reflected back at him. Something about sharing in that fucked up desire, that all _three_ of them were wanting this, made it more palatable.

Alastair set to work first. Seeing him with that blade was like seeing an artist at work. Every movement had purpose, was precise and hurt just as much as he intended it to. He started nice and easy, carving lines down her arms and chest in a crisscross pattern. And then he handed off the blade to Tom. Tom wasn’t delicate at all; blood flowed and tears fell, but still the woman said nothing. Her jaw stayed firmly locked as she trembled, eyes unseeing as she stared at the cracked ceiling.

“Wanna give it a try?” Alastair offered, a hand on Tom to restrain him from doing more.

Dean swallowed, looking back and forth between the woman on the table and the knife being offered to him. Without even making the conscious decision, he reached for the knife.

“Hey,” he said, leaning over the woman. This close, she looked a lot younger than he thought. Probably around Meg’s age; fresh out of college with her whole life ahead of her.

Just like Henry.

Sympathy dried up and turned to anger. Why should _she_ have gotten farther than his son? Why should she have been allowed to survive?

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Dean continued, warm breath tickling at her forehead. “I’m not gonna be as rough as Tommy boy here was, but I ain’t gonna be able to be as… as _clean_ as Alastair was, either. This is gonna keep going on and on until you tell us what we need to know. Plain and simple. You think you’re gonna bleed out? You’re not. Alastair’s a doctor and so’s his brother. We want you to stay alive, you’re staying alive. We want you to hurt, you’re gonna hurt. So why don’t you do us both a favor and make this easy?”

Dean pulled the gag loose. She didn’t scream, which felt like a victory in and of itself. But then she sneered at him, spitting in his face. “Go fuck yourself.”

His temper flared and the knife came down before he could even register it. It stuck right into the meat of her hand and drew a pained cry from the woman.

“I’m sorry, but either you didn’t understand me, or you’re dumber than you look.” He pulled the knife out. A trail of blood sprung from the wound, flowing freely down her wrist and onto the table to mix with the dried zombie blood from previous sessions. “So let’s try again. Who dropped you off?”

“Go to hell—Ahhh!”

Dean stabbed the knife back in. It went in so easily. He tried not to think about what that meant. “Who dropped you off?” This time he didn’t wait for an answer before he twisted the knife ninety degrees. Her mouth was pressed into a firm line. “Fine,” he shrugged, twisting the knife back and drawing it out. “Be that way. I don’t got anything else to do today—”

He lifted the knife to dive in again, but a weak “Wait!” interrupted him.

“I… I won’t give you my friends, but I’ll show you the camp.”

She told them everything after that. Where their camp was, what types of supplies they had, when her friends wouldn’t be there. Dean, Uriel, and Tom tied her up and stuffed her in the back of a truck to head over and take care of things. Alastair stayed behind to clean up, though not before pulling Dean aside and telling him how proud he was of him. He’d done beautifully, put to use everything Alastair had taught him and gotten the information even when Alastair couldn’t.

“Damn fine work, my boy,” he said as he patted Dean on the back.

Fuck if it didn’t feel good to be praised. To do something _right_.

It didn’t sit well with Dean as they packed up everything at the camp. It was small, but they had a lot of useful stuff. Sleeping bags, a shotgun (“Fucking _yes_! Finally!” Tom cried as he waved it over his head triumphantly. “There’s no bullets,” the woman grumbled, wiggling in Uriel’s grasp. “Ain’t a problem, baby, don’t you worry.” She flinched when Tom winked at her.), a few winter jackets, and a couple gallons of gasoline. There might not be much, but it was all these people had.

“These people are going to die if we take this,” Dean whispered to Tom as they packed up the back of the truck. “Look at her. They’re barely surviving as it is.”

“We’re all going to die. It’s the end of the world. Survival of the fittest and all that.” Tom shrugged as he dropped the last gas canister with the rest of their haul. “Look around, man. These guys are one passing horde away from dying in their sleep, anyway. They’ll die out here either today or tomorrow or maybe, _maybe_ a few weeks from now, but they’re dyin’. And this stuff isn’t any use to them if they’re getting eaten. You know who it _is_ useful to? Us. People who aren’t on their last leg. People with actual walls and fences and _guns_. People who might actually survive the winter.”

Dean wanted to argue.

_Survival of the fittest was for fucking animals. We’re not animals._

_They could stay with us. You took me and Benny in. And Zachariah and Uriel. Andrea, too. Hell, you would’ve taken in Cas and Henry. Why the hell not these people too?_

He didn’t say any of that. Instead he nodded grimly and turned away. In a fucked up way, Tom was right. They’d stored away a decent cache of supplies, but canned food wouldn’t last forever. Winter was coming; the leaves had all turned and were scattered across the city. Every day, they needed to travel further and further out to get new supplies to feed the nine of them. The last thing they needed was more mouths to feed.

_That how we’re justifying things now?_

That voice sounded a lot like Andrea, or maybe Cas, but it was quiet and easy to ignore.

“What do we do with her?” Tom asked while nodding to the woman. She still hadn’t given them her name. Dean belatedly realized he hadn’t actually _asked_ for it, either.

“Leave her here?” Dean suggested. “Tie her up so she can’t follow us back?”

“She knows too much,” Uriel growled. The woman gasped as his grip tightened. She struggled to get away, but the effort was halfhearted at best. “Better off killing her.”

The color drained from Dean’s face. He’d done some fucked up things since the world turned, but he wasn’t willing to add cold blooded _murder_ to the list. “We don’t need to _kill_ her!”

“She knows where we are.”

“Uriel’s got a point—”

“She don’t know jack shit, do you sweetheart?” Her eyes met Dean’s and she narrowed them in revulsion at the nickname. Dean rolled his eyes and went back to ignoring her. “Alastair said he’d blindfolded her when he took her to the shed. She was blindfolded until we’d driven far enough away. We’ve got guns, we’ve got more people than her… She’s not suicidal enough to come back for revenge.”

Uriel looked at the woman skeptically. “What makes you think we have more people?”

“There were a grand total of _two_ sleeping bags here. Even if they were bunking up, that means what? Three, four people? They don’t even have enough people to leave someone behind and guard their camp for fuck’s sake. They’re not a threat.”

Uriel and Dean stared each other down for a few minutes until Tom broke in with a weak, “I think he’s right.”

“ _Fine_ , then.” Uriel dragged the woman to the nearest tree and started tying her to it. “You better hope your people find you before the undead do.”

Tom said as he climbed into the passenger seat of the truck. “Let’s go home, I’m starving.”

Only Dean spared a final glance at the woman, now fighting furiously against her restraints. They didn’t budge, but with enough time she’d manage to get herself free. Dean was the last one into the truck, taking over driving while Uriel sat stoically between him and Tom. Nobody seemed even remotely bothered by this whole thing except Dean; it made him wonder if he was blowing things out of proportion.

“You think you’re saving me?” she called after them. “You think this isn’t a death sentence?”

“Keep making that racket, it will be!” Tom shouted out the window.

“Next time just have the balls to kill the people you torture! That you steal from! Don’t pretend you’re not monsters just because you didn’t kill me yourselves! I’m as good as dead! I’m _dead_ because of you!”

The shouting continued until it was obscured to meaningless noise through the trees. Even as he got them back to the road, Dean thought he could hear her voice carried by the wind, though he had a feeling it’d haunt his dreams for many nights to come.

The moment they got back, Benny could sense something was off with Dean. He hovered over him all evening, not leaving him alone with Tom or Meg and certainly not with Alastair or Azazel. Dean could feel him like a shadow following his every move, and it was all he could do not to rush off to bed. He endured dinner and talk about where they planned on going tomorrow, then slipped out to go to bed early.

They never changed rooms, sticking to the cramped guest room first offered to them when Dean was hurt. All the other rooms filled up when Alastair, Uriel, and Zachariah arrived, so it was either this or grab a cot and hole up in the library or den. Dean had scrubbed the place clean of any trace of Andrea long ago, but Benny in general avoided the room. He’d push himself until the point of passing out, then he’d collapse onto his small bed for a few hours.

That was admittedly part of the room’s appeal right now; he could get away from Benny’s judgemental looks while he cleaned himself up. Which was part of why Dean was immediately on edge when he tried to close the door behind him, only to have Benny push in and carefully lock it shut.

Dean had never been much for secrets. Not big ones, anyway. He and Benny had been close for years. Back when he first started falling for Cas, he told Benny about it before anyone else. He figured if he could share that with Benny, he could share anything.

Not this, though. Not what had happened today. If Benny point blank asked him, maybe, but he sure as fuck wasn’t going to _volunteer_ any information he didn’t have to. What would he even  say? That he’d tortured someone today? That even though he knew it was fucked up, he’d kind of _liked_ it? That the blood splattered against her pale skin had looked _beautiful_? That he secretly hoped he’d get the chance to do it again?

Dean didn’t really like acknowledging those thoughts in his own head; there was no _way_ he could share them with Benny.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” he said gruffly.

Benny sat down on his bed. “Okay.”

“I mean it, Benny. I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Who’s making you?”

Dean went through his before bed routine, kicking off his boots and changing into sweatpants.

“You still wanna stay here, brother? With them?” Benny asked. The candles barely provided enough light to make out his expression, but Dean thought he saw concern there. “There are other ways to live out here, brother,” he pressed when Dean didn’t answer. “We don’t have to do this one.”

Dean shrugged and pulled on a t-shirt. “Yeah, there probably are. But where would we go? Back to your beaten down house or _my_ empty fucking house and have my heart ripped out all over again? There’s nothing out there for me. For you, either. What’s the point?”

For a moment, Benny merely watched Dean as he got ready for bed. Right before Dean moved to blow out the candles, he whispered, “There’s Sam.”

Sam. As hard as it was to think about Cas and Henry, it was just as hard to think about Sam. Sam, the little brother he’d practically raised and who he’d never see again. Anger and guilt warred for attention as Dean tried to stamp them back down. “Yeah fucking right. We haven’t gone more than twenty miles in any direction and you wanna travel across three fucking states?”

“Tom and Meg made it down to Lawrenceville. It’s not like it’s _impossible_ —”

Dean slammed his bag down to start unpacking his loot. “Andrea is dead.” He undid the first buckle. “Cas is dead.” He undid the next one. “Henry is dead.” He forcefully pulled the zipper open. “Sam and Eileen are dead.” He turned the bag upside down, spilling the contents all over the bed. A half-empty bottle of tequila, a beat up deck of cards, and a couple books were all he had to show for ten hours out on the road. It didn’t help his mood any. “Bobby, Jo, and Ellen are dead. Everybody we ever fucking knew is fucking dead. We’re gonna be dead soon too, and here’s as good a place as any to do it. Why go chasing more pain when I can suffer here just as well as anywhere else?”

“That really want you want?”

Dean shook his head, his earlier anger deflating. “I don’t even fucking know, man. What I _want_ hasn’t mattered in a long time.”

“Just sayin’. It’s an option.”

“Yeah, great. Another shitty option among a million other shitty options.” He blew out the candles, effectively ending the conversation.

\- - - -

After that, they encountered more and more people. As winter drew closer, people grew more desperate. There were more people in the city as everyone spread out, needing to cover more ground to get supplies like food and medication. And guns. Guns were a big issue.

Alastair and Azazel had argued about it before—Alastair not seeing the need for guns while Azazel thought they were a necessary part of survival now—but with encounters coming almost weekly, they all agreed it was a priority. A group of them spent a whole day fighting through town to get to every police station they could find. The only place they didn’t bother checking was the prison; it was a heap of rubble, the fences broken down and obvious fire damage throughout. And it was absolutely crawling with zombies.

Dean really wanted to know the story of what happened there, but like with most things nowadays, he had to content himself with his imagination.

They amassed a decent collection of guns and bullets, including some blanks that were good for target practice. They were still loud, so they drove out to the woods to actually practice. It was fun though, getting away from the house to a place with a lower risk of running into zombies. Or people.

Dean both dreaded and looked forward to days when they’d run into honest to god people.

The moral ambiguity surrounding the woman they’d tortured and then abandoned left a sour taste in his mouth. He doubled his efforts to find strong liquor and drove the Impala whenever he got the chance; maybe if he tried hard enough, he could outrun the voices whispering that there _was_ no moral ambiguity at all.

Luckily, there was no crisis of conscience most of the time. Most of the time it was people attacking them, guns fired or rocks flying. In the heat of the moment, adrenaline pumping and his own life on the line, Dean didn’t hesitate. He shot first and asked questions later. In those moments, it wasn’t just him, either. All of them defended themselves and their supplies. Although he didn’t care to see Tom or Uriel or Alastair killing indiscriminately, it made Dean feel a little better when Benny joined in. If bad men do bad things, that’s one thing; if someone like Benny was doing it too, that meant it was _necessary_. It was the _right_ call.

They weren’t always fights, though. Sometimes it was people trying to steal from them while they left the cars unattended. Sometimes it was people trying to follow them back home. Dean didn’t see it as a gray area anymore: they tried to hurt Dean and the people around him, which basically forfeited their right to goodwill. There was always guilt that lingered afterwards. Especially when things got more brutal and some of the _skills_ he’d acquired from Alastair came into play.

Guilt for never going back to check on that first woman.

Guilt for what he’d done to so many people now that he didn’t dare count.

Guilt for kind of liking it.

Guilt for _really_ liking it and embracing it.

How many times did Dean step forward to torture information out of would-be thieves and attackers? He was damn good at it, too. Only Alastair was better. Hell, maybe not even Alastair; Alastair was too focused on the pain, never knew when to use a light touch like Dean did. Dean questioning these people was a kindness—he’d never hurt them as badly as Alastair did, and he’d end it quickly if he needed to.

Benny never participated in the torture part. He didn’t complain or question it. Not out loud anyway. The others would sometimes make snide comments that he wouldn’t help with it, but Benny shrugged it off. He worked hard and was damn good at killing zombies, so it wasn’t like he was dead weight or anything. It did grate on Dean, just a little, to have his friend take the ‘high road.’

It only became an issue that one time though.

That one time when they’d been attacked and shot one of the men. Only one, though; the other had gotten away. It was too cold to stay outside; the sky was stormy, like it might even snow, and the hell if Dean was going to stay out there exposed. They’d found an abandoned building and tied the man up inside. It was just Dean, Benny, and Meg, so Dean took over the questioning.

“Who were you with?”

Nothing.

“Where’s your camp?”

Nothing.

“How many of you are there?”

Nothing.

It went downhill from there. Dean moved from his basic techniques to ones he’d only ever threatened before, things he’d never tried. He tore off the man’s nails, pushed the knife deeper and deeper, broke his fingers so badly there was no way they’d heal properly. Finally, the man spoke.

“Victor.”

“What’s that?” Dean twisted the man’s arm around, forcing him to lift his head up more as he braced against the pain.

“Victor. Name’s Victor. And that’s all you’re getting from me. I’m not giving you my brother or my family or anything else. So go ahead. Do your worst. Let’s see what you got.”

Fury overwhelmed Dean’s vision. Wasn’t this enough? Hadn’t he dragged this man though enough pain already? Wasn’t he _good_ enough at this?

Dean saw nothing, heard nothing after that moment as rage took over. Oh, Dean would show him his worst. Make him regret ever even _daring_ to suggest—

“Easy, brother.” Benny’s breath tickled his ears and there was a large, restraining arm around his chest. “Take it easy.”

“Listen to the grizzly bear.” Meg came into view in front of him. Eyebrow cocked, she looked far more amused than concerned. “You gotta learn how to take a loss. Victor here ain’t talking. You made a valiant effort, but that’s all you’re getting from him. Let it go, Dean-o.”

Dean stretched to look around Meg. The man—Victor, his name was Victor—lay lifeless on the ground. If it weren’t for the shallow rise and fall of his chest, Dean would’ve thought he was dead. Not that he wasn’t far off. His eyes were swollen shut, his cheek caved in; an ear was missing and though Dean couldn’t see it now, he vaguely remembered cutting off more pieces. Toes or knuckles and long strips of flesh from his thighs. And of course there was the blood.

Blood was everywhere—the floor, the walls, his clothes. When Dean looked down, it was all over him, too. Far too much blood, more than Dean had ever seen from a living person. Victor might be breathing, but he wouldn’t be for much longer.

Dean had more or less killed the man.

“Oh god,” he grit out. He couldn’t turn away, no matter how horrific the sight. He wanted it etched into his brain for the rest of his life. He wanted to remember the look of the man he’d killed, all the smells and the taste of blood and sweat in the air.

It was… it was… awful glorious terrifying freeing perfect beautiful grotesque; the best worst thing he’d ever done.

It was over.

He dropped the knife and pulled out of Benny’s grasp. “C’mon, nothing more for us here. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

The drive back was long and silent. Dean gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles were white and unfeeling. A phantom ache drew his attention to the scar along his side; his fingers itched to trace the marred flesh, the only visible spot where he was broken. Instead he focused on the road. The grass grew wild at the sides and the potholes and cracks ran deeper with every passing month. They could measure time by these signs of decay more than anything else. Dean kind of looked forward to when the forest reclaimed the town, though he doubted he’d live long enough to see it.

He spent the remainder of the drive imagining Chesterfield and Richmond and Lawrenceville being sucked back into nature. Animals roaming without fear, plants growing unmolested by human hands, buildings crumbling under the weight of veins. It’d be like they’d never existed at all. That thought was kind of comforting.

They went through their regular evening routine. New supplies were put away, weapons were cleaned, dinner was eaten, Alastair or Azazel were debriefed on what they’d done. Alastair gave Dean a disappointed look when he heard about the _incident_ , and that was enough to drive Dean upstairs to his room. Bad enough to know what he’d done; he didn’t need to think about _disappointing_ anyone.

Benny followed him up, and Dean sighed internally.

When they were alone in their room, Dean could feel Benny’s unasked questions weighing heavily on him. Neither said anything as Dean stripped out of his ruined clothes. Ruined might be a strong word for it. He had yet to throw anything out because of stains, blood or otherwise, but this was pushing it.

He kind of wanted to keep it as a reminder.

He could figure that out later. For now, he had to clean himself up. There was a wash basin on one of the dressers, some old family antique Lilith had lent him ages ago, and Dean started wiping the blood off of his hands. This wasn’t the first time he’d had to do this since he’d let Alastair take him under his wing, but it was the first time he’d had an audience while doing so. It grated on him, thinking that his best friend (his _only_ friend that was left, really) looked down on him.

That more than anything else made Dean snap, going on the offensive before Benny even got the chance to speak.

“Why don’t you ever help with this stuff?” Dean flicked off the water clinging to his hands, tinged pink with blood. “You think you’re better than this?”

Dean had been gearing up for a fight, but Benny didn’t rise to the bait. He merely shrugged, arms crossed over his chest and an impassive look on his face.

“Don’t really have the stomach for it, brother.”

He deflated a little, but it was easier to stay angry. If he was angry, he didn’t have to question himself. Didn’t have to investigate himself and his own motives too closely.

Grabbing a nearby towel, Dean wiped off his hands and threw the towel on the floor. “You think you’re better than me ‘cuz you don’t do this? ‘Cuz you can keep your hands clean while the rest of us do all the bad shit that’s necessary to keep us alive and safe? Huh? Is that what you think?”

“Dean,” Benny said slowly, “you’re the best man I know. Always have been. If you’re doing this, it’s because you feel you have to, and I get that. Even good men do things they ain’t proud of.”

Filled with raw, untapped energy, Dean needed a _fight_. He needed Benny to argue back; be disgusted with him, call him out for doing shit he never thought he would’ve done, not in a million years. This understanding bullshit was _awful_.

“Who says I’m not proud of it? Huh? I’m doing what I need to do to make sure _we_ —” He pointed between himself and Benny. “— _survive_ out here. What’s not to be proud of in that?”

Benny stood quiet for a moment after that, a considering look in his eye, before saying, “You don’t look at Cas and Henry anymore.”

Hearing their names out loud after so long made Dean startle a bit. “What?” he squeaked.

“You used to take out their picture and look at it every night before you went to sleep. You haven’t done that in _months_. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. I’m guessing maybe you’ve been doing things you wouldn’t want them to know about. So yeah, you’re doing what you have to do and I appreciate that, but don’t lie to me and pretend you’re _proud_ of it.”

“Don’t you _ever_ say their names again!” Dean shouted. His voice was hoarse and his throat constricted painfully. Unshed tears clouded his vision and a terrible emotion he didn’t dare try to name or pin down threatened to overtake him.

“Alright, brother, take it easy.” Firm hands guide him to his bed and helped him down. “I won’t say their names if you don’t want me to.”

The levee broke and Dean buried his face in his hands to try and stem the waves of sobs wracking through him. Benny was right. Of course he was right. If Cas could see him now or, god forbid, _Henry_ —

It wasn’t worth thinking about. At least that was how he justified it. No point wondering what Castiel or Henry would think of him now, since they’d never get the chance to find out.

Benny sat by him and held him until he stopped crying.

“I don’t… I don’t want you to stop saying their names,” Dean whimpered. Once upon a time, he might be embarrassed at the outburst of emotion, but he was months removed from the man who’d been uncomfortable crying in front of anyone. Pretending it didn’t hurt didn’t actually make it hurt any less, so why bother with the posturing?

“If you stop saying their names… If _I_ stop… it’s like they’re really gone. At least if _someone_ remembers them…”

“I know, brother. I know. Not as good as havin’ them back, but next best thing.”

“Yeah.” Dean wiped at his eyes and sniffled noisily. “Next best thing.”


	5. The Seeds of Dissent

Even though they’d known each other for years, Dean and Cas didn’t hook up until college. Dean remembered all too clearly how a trip to the movies had ended up in the back seat of the Impala, the two of them unable to keep their hands off each other. As desperate as they’d been, they hadn’t even gotten their pants off. With Dean stretched out across the back seat and Cas straddling him, they ground their clothed cocks together over and over again.

“So good, babe,” Dean moaned, head back against the leather. He could _feel_ it, _smell_ it, _knew_ he was actually in the Impala. Something niggled at the back of his mind, reminding him that there was something wrong. Ignoring it, he dug his hands into Cas’ hips so he could get better leverage to thrust against him. “So good.”

“Mmm,” Castiel hummed in agreement.

Just like that first time, neither lasted long. Cas came first, sighing into a kiss as his hips stuttered to a stop. Dean took over and held Cas still so he could finish himself off, find oblivion in the man he loved.

Had he loved Cas back then? He couldn’t really remember; it’d been so long, it was hard to imagine there ever being a time when he _didn’t_ love Castiel.

A sorry imitation of an orgasm rocked through him, making him sigh in frustration. His brain told him it felt good, but it wasn’t anywhere near as good as the real thing. He’d even be willing to take the discomfort of come soaked pants if it meant it was real. With a frustrated sigh, he sank into the seat and pulled Castiel close. May as well enjoy the dream while it lasted.

“Almost fooled you, huh?” Cas whispered as he kissed along Dean’s jaw line. “Sorry, wanted to make sure you enjoyed it but you always figure it out too soon.”

“It’s alright.” His words slurred together as the dream tried to dissolve and send him spiraling back into sleep or the waking world. “Talk to me. How was your day?”

Castiel hesitated before answering. “Dean… you know I’m not real, right? I have no days or nights. I have nothing that you don’t give me—”

“Can we just pretend, though? Pretend you’re my Cas and I found you and—and—” _And you’re alive and okay and this world never happened._

“They’re your dreams, Dean. Of course we can pretend. We can do anything that you want.” He placed a chaste kiss to Dean’s forehead. “I made breakfast for Henry. He got up before I finished and helped add the blueberries to the pancakes, then I took him to school…”

As Dean’s mind drifted farther and farther away, Cas’ words trailed off into meaningless noise. It was still the most beautiful sound in the world.

\- - - -

Dreams of Cas weren’t uncommon, but they always hurt like a bitch when he woke up. The sad truth that he’d only ever see his husband or his son in dreams was a hard cross to bear; one he’d never get over, even if he somehow managed to live to a ripe old age in this apocalyptic world.

Most of the time he hoped he wouldn’t, but he didn’t dwell too long on those dark thoughts.

Dean woke up and lay there in the back of the Impala, watching the early sunlight filter in through the windows. He was cold, toes numb and a definite chill throughout his body, even though he was fully dressed and had a couple blankets on. With an annoyed grunt, he pushed up and reached over the bench to turn on the ignition and get some heat flowing.

It was early spring and obviously still too damn cold to get away with sleeping in the Impala overnight, but yesterday had been warm enough that he’d risked it. He’d hated the winter, either stuck inside with people he barely tolerated (thank god for Benny or Dean would’ve lost his goddamned mind) or freezing his ass off outside. At least the zombies were a lot slower with the cold freezing their muscles and joints. Not much of a comfort whenever Dean had to shovel snow or drive over ice as he and the others scoured for food and supplies.

Condensation dotted the windshield. One or two swipes of the wipers cleared off the morning dew, revealing once more the abandoned roadside Dean had pulled onto the night before. He hadn’t actually driven out with the _intention_ of spending the night in the Impala, but he’d been too drunk and too damn tired to wait around to sober up. Finding a spot to pull over and drink the rest of his evening away seemed a hell of a lot more entertaining.

He was paying for that decision now. His head throbbed, there was a crick in his neck, and phantom pain reminded him of the prominent scar on his right side. The wound had healed nicely overall, barely bothered him most days, but it wasn’t pretty. An angry line of puckered, pink skin danced along his abdomen just below his ribs. He hated it; a constant reminder that he’d gotten himself too hurt to rush back and protect his family.

“Boo fucking hoo,” he snapped at himself. “God you whine a lot, Winchester.”

Tossing aside the blankets so he could get out of the car—gun in hand, just in case—and nearly tripped over the long, beige material tangled around his legs.

Oh fuck, he didn’t.

Dean looked down and winced.

He did.

He’d gotten himself drunk enough to actually open the trunk, take out Cas’ _bloody_ trenchcoat, and wear it to bed. Great. Fucking amazing.

Since Tom had handed it over to him, Dean had held onto the coat because like it or not, it was the last tangible reminder of Cas he had left. No matter how _awful_ the memories now were, it wasn’t something Dean could just throw away. It also wasn’t something he liked to look at. Normally it was neatly folded and tucked away in the back of the trunk, underneath a box of emergency rations in case he ever got stranded out in the middle of nowhere for a couple days. A couple times, his fingers had itched to pull it out, but it was an impulse he’d fervently pushed aside and ignored.

Until last night, apparently.

As quickly as he could, he pulled it off and almost threw it to the ground as if it burned. He closed his eyes and after a long, shuddering breath, he was able to force himself to look at and actually handle the damn thing. It was just a jacket. Nothing to get upset about.

_Just my dead husband’s jacket._

_That he **died** in._

_Yeah, nothing upsetting here._

What the hell had possessed him to take it out and sleep in it, he had no idea. As calmly as he could, he started to fold it back up but stopped short. The material felt… wrong. Not the parts caked with blood, obviously those were matted and coarse, but the rest of it was off. Carefully, Dean unfolded it and held it out in front of him. It didn’t… It just didn’t _look_ right, either. The color wasn’t right. Or maybe the lapels were different. Was it the length? Was it bigger than he remembered? He couldn’t pin down _what_ was wrong, but the trenchcoat wasn’t the same.

The only thing different, the only thing that had changed since the last time he’d seen it was _him_.

_Dream Cas doesn’t give a shit what you do. Doesn’t care who you torture or hurt or kill to survive._

_… Real Cas might’ve._

He wasn’t normally the poetic type, but the idea that the trenchcoat, his one tie to Cas, didn’t feel right anymore… That his subconscious knew something about how Cas would react to his new life…

Freaked out more than he wanted to admit, Dean stuffed the trenchcoat back into the trunk. He didn’t bother to fold it or anything, just shoved it in the back and stacked all his other supplies around it so he wouldn’t ever have to see it again.

The whole drive back, Dean kept an eye out for zombies on the roadside. He’d veer out of his way to attack a pack of them. The gun tucked into his waistband, he opted for the metal pipe he’d brought with him and pounded away until he’d put a decent dent in his own frustration and guilt.

Wiping the blood off the pipe, Dean headed back to the house with his conscience a whole lot lighter. Or at least a whole lot more repressed.

\- - - -

Dean avoided the Impala for a while. Kept her clean, had Benny drive her to check the engine, but didn’t go joy riding and certainly didn’t spend the night. He couldn’t stand to think what Cas might say to him. Or worse yet, what Henry would. He couldn’t imagine a nightmare worse than having his son watch him work a blade into someone.

He kind of wished Meg had taken the car.

\- - - -

They were a few miles northeast of town, out by the James River. Or maybe in the city, it was hard to tell these days. It was familiar scenery to Dean and Benny, since they’d each come in this way to get to work, and they were more in less of charge of picking spots to raid in that area.

Huh. Work. What a fucking weird concept.

There were some homes in neighborhoods off the highway that looked promising for scouting. The streets were littered with trash and abandoned, totaled cars, but any house with a door still intact was worth searching. Uriel found a half decent spot to leave the car, and together he, Dean, and Benny picked through the ravaged neighborhood for a promising place to start.

They were far enough away from the shitshow that was Richmond that they didn’t worry too much about zombies. Yeah, they were there, but the city itself was a huge attraction. Dean had only see it from a distance through binoculars, but smoke still plumed occasionally and the familiar skyline was distorted with toppled buildings. The constant noise of new buildings crumbling and the racket of undead moans kept luring more zombies in. The maze of lost civilization kept them pretty contained, too, as they wandered aimlessly around.

There were thousands if not more of them trapped in Richmond, at least from what Dean had seen, and it gave him a thrill to be so close to danger.

Maybe one day if he wanted to end it all, he’d grab a bat and head into the city proper. Try to find out what happened to Bobby, or just see how many zombies he could take down before they took him down.

Humans were, of course, always a concern, no matter where they were. They hadn’t seen too many groups since spring hit in full force, and Dean assumed a decent number of people in the area had either succumbed to the elements or had fled further south to warmer climates. Didn’t mean he didn’t open every building, round every bend in the road expecting to get shot at.

Still, he hadn’t been anticipating getting whacked on the head after he’d pushed open the back gate of a small rancher. The blow missed and hit his shoulder, but it still hurt. In anger, he’d swung towards the source and caught someone with his fist. There was a grunt of pain and then Benny was there, forcing the man to the ground and casting aside the garden shovel he’d used on Dean.

“Uriel!” Benny called. “Could use your help! Bring rope!”

Dean rubbed at his hurt shoulder and resisted the urge to kick at the man who’d hurt him. Fucking animal, attacking people on sight.

Usually that was when a voice—his own or Andrea’s or Cas’ or maybe Sam’s—would interrupt and tell him he was being an asshole. Remind him that his misery didn’t excuse ignoring other people’s.

That voice had been quiet for a while now.

“What the fuck you think you’re doing?” Dean shouted at the man, pulling his head back by the scruff of the neck and glaring down at him. The guy looked old, maybe in his fifties, but better off than most of the drifters they ran into. “You just go around hitting people? The fuck?”

“You were breaking into my yard,” the man stated plainly. “I suspect you’d do much the same in my position. You’re not the first raider I’ve had to discourage, and I doubt I’m the first person you’ve tried to steal from.”

Dean snarled a little in annoyance, grip tightening before Benny pulled the man back. Taking a hint, Dean loosened his hold and took a step back. He’d forgotten himself for a second; the others were just fine with Dean going off the handle on people, but Benny expected him to be his former self. He both loved and hated Benny for it. Some days he wanted to lose himself in the darker impulses he felt, those baser instincts that helped him be so damn good at interrogating people.

“What’d you find?” Uriel drawled as he pushed into the backyard. Dean’s eyes had been locked on the man in a staring match. While Dean had been glaring murder at him, the stranger seemed unimpressed; not resigned to his fate, more unintimidated by Dean, no matter how menacingly he loomed over him. But Uriel’s appearance drew Dean’s attention away, and he was finally able to take in the rest of the yard.

The house had seemed unassuming from the front. There was no garage, just a small carport with no car in it, attached to a small house, two bedrooms at the most. Old but well-cared for. It was the only house on the block that didn’t need repairs: no chipped paint, new roof shingles, and an immaculate front yard. Come to think of it, that should’ve tipped them off this place was inhabited, since everywhere else the grass grew wild and weeds were reclaiming the former flower beds.

The backyard, though. Wow. It was _beautiful_. The left half was dominated by flowers, enough to rival Andrea’s garden. Dean could already see a few Benny would probably take once they dealt with things here. The flowers grew around a large apple tree that stretched out towards the roof of house. The right half was clearly a vegetable garden; young sprouts grew in orderly rows and vines climbed lattices. No wonder the guy had had to scare people off. In a few months there would certainly enough food here to feed one live man.

Or enough to supplement a larger group's rations.

“Some asshole who hit me with a fucking shovel,” Dean explained. His shoulder still stung, but his anger was sharper than the dull throbbing.

“Joshua,” the man corrected. “Just a man protecting what’s his from people trying to take it.”

“Yeah, and how’s that working out for you so far?” Dean snapped as Uriel threw a string of rope to Benny and he tied up Joshua. “From where I’m standing, it ain’t lookin’ too good for you right now.”

“It hasn’t looked too good for _anyone_ since the dead started walking. I’d say on average, I’m no worse off than I was yesterday.”

Dean pulled out a knife and took a knee next to the man. Benny stepped aside, wandering off towards the flowers and leaving Joshua in Dean’s capable hands. Good. He worked better without Benny looming over him. Dean knew perfectly well that Benny didn’t like of any of this torture business; him giving Dean space was the closest he got to Benny’s seal of approval.

Blade to Joshua’s throat, Dean smiled and winked. “Trust me, you’re at least a little worse off than yesterday. You alone out here Joshua?”

He shrugged, still unphased by Dean’s aggressive display. “What’s it look like it?”

Temper flaring, Dean gave the man a back-handed blow. As soon as he recovered, Dean had the knife right back to his throat. When he tried to lean away, Dean held him in place by the back of the neck, pressing the blade hard enough that a thin trail of blood trickled down.  

“It looks like we’ve got a failure to communicate properly. _I_ ask you a question, and _you_ give me a straight answer. Capiche?” He didn’t wait for the man to acknowledge him. “So, Joshua… you alone out here?”

He considered Dean more carefully than he had before. “Yes. Just me and my plants.” His eyes drifted over to Benny. “The daisies are particularly nice this year, if you want to take some. They should transplant well, if you’ve got a garden of your own.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “You got any weapons or booby traps we should know about?”

“Only weapons I got are my gardening tools. And I’d rather use those for their intended purpose than—”

“So the house is safe?” Dean interrupted. He didn’t give a shit about this holier than thou attitude Joshua was giving. Nice for him that he hadn’t had to get his hands dirty when the world ended, but that wasn’t going to earn him any brownie points with Dean.

“Yes.”

Dean nodded to Uriel, who went up the back steps of the small deck and disappeared through the open sliding door. Based on what he’d seen so far, Dean doubted there was much to take besides food and maybe some knick knacks, but that was up to Uriel to figure out.

“You robbing me, son?”

His hackles rose at the word ‘son.’ Bobby used to call him that, and fuck if he didn’t want to think about Bobby right now. Bobby would tan his hide if he knew—But he didn’t, and he wouldn’t.

Shaking his head to dispel the thoughts, Dean did his best to put on a friendly if not menacing smile. “Call it tribute, if you want. We don’t want any trouble. You just let us take what we need, and we’ll be on our way. No need for anybody to get hurt.”

“I’m sorry, but is that sweat running down my neck?”

“Bub, if you think _that’s_ hurt, then I don’t know what world you’ve been living in but—”

Shots rung out, drowning out all other sound. Bullets peppered the ground around them and Dean jumped in spite of himself. His knife dug into Joshua’s throat, and his eyes went wide as he slumped forward onto Dean. There was a dark spot rapidly growing on his back, hit from the flurry of gunfire. Without much feeling behind it, Dean wondered if it was him or the bullet that killed him.

It was going to keep him up at night, wondering that.

But for now, he was reaching for the gun he kept tucked into his pants and trying to figure out where the hell the shots had come from.

“Dean!” Benny hissed as he rushed towards the fence. It wouldn’t provide much shelter, but it might hide them from view… assuming that was where the shooters were coming from.

Trusting Benny’s instincts, Dean hunched over and darted next to him. His back hit the fence and he slumped against it. “You alright?”

“Yeah, you?”

More gunshots fired again, hitting the fence to their left. Most of the bullets imbedded themselves in the woods, but a few broke through in a splintery mess. Dean didn’t like their odds if their attackers managed to hit the right part of the fence.

“I’ve been better.” Dean tried to remember where they’d parked and how far away they were. Could they risk running back? “What’s the plan here?”

“Run for it? They're shooting from the opposite direction the car's in… If we stay in the house, we’ll just get hemmed in. Picked off when we try to leave…”

He looked to the house and saw Uriel peeking out the back door. “Alright,” Dean agreed, “we’ll follow the fence to the deck, go through the house, and make a run for the car. Hope Uriel didn’t find anything good because we’ll have to leave it.”

As best he could, he tried to communicate the plan to Uriel. Uriel stared at them impassively, nodding as though he understood. He damn well better.

The rain of bullets had died down—most likely whoever was shooting at them didn’t want to waste them if they weren’t sure where Benny and Dean were—and Dean strained to hear any sign of approaching footsteps. Nothing; no birds, no wind, and certainly nothing human or zombie. The longer they waited here, though, the more likely that last one would change. If target practice in the woods had taught him anything, it was that gunshots never failed to bring zombies out in force.

Usually zombies offered them some practical, hands on experience shooting, but the last thing Dean wanted right now was to deal with random assholes shooting at the same time he was dealing with those undead fuckers. One problem at a time, thank you very much.

Motioning to Benny, he got his attention and then counted down from three with his fingers. Once he reached zero, they ran at a crouch along the fence, then sprinted to the door. Gunshots fired again, but Dean kept going. Uriel threw the door open for them and was already moving to the front of the house when the door slammed shut behind them.

“There wouldn’t happen to be a side door, would there?”

“Not unless you plan on crawling out the window, no.”

“Fucking A.”

Uriel nearly pulled the front door off its hinges as he pulled it open. After looking back and forth down the street, Uriel got his shotgun ready, then stormed out. Dean waited a few seconds, made sure it was reasonably safe (yes, he used Uriel as bait and no, he didn’t feel bad about it), he charged after him. Whoever was shooting at them must have only had a sightline on the backyard and hadn’t been able to beat them around to the front. Good. Probably wouldn’t be able to follow them once they go to the car.

The litter in the street slowed them down, but the abandoned vehicles provided good cover. The three of them weaved in and out, keeping low and not maintaining a quick pace. Ahead of them was the car—surrounded, of fucking course, by zombies, but only ten of them—and behind them, the one time Dean chanced a look back, were clearly people following them. They moved too quickly, too fluidly to be zombies. They’d barely reached Joshua’s house, too far to shoot accurately, but they were keeping pace with them if not steadily gaining ground. Three, four of them maybe.

Part of Dean wanted to stand his ground and shoot the people trying to shoot them. If he were alone, or at least without Benny there, he’d probably consider it a lot more seriously. Dean cared less and less about his own survival, but Benny was all he had left. Benny deserved more than to die in a shootout in some random ass neighborhood outside of Richmond.

He’d failed a lot of people in the last year, but he was sure as fuck not going to fail Benny, too.

Uriel beat them to the car and started hacking away at the zombies milling about. Dean was next and joined in, stabbing them in the head with his knife or just knocking them over. As long as the path was clear for them to escape, they’d be good. Better to leave a few zombies behind to distract their attackers.

By the time Benny got there, their attackers were close enough to fire off a few shots. A zombie jerked backwards at the blow, a window of the car shattered, and Benny hissed in pain.

“Benny?” Dean whipped around to see his friend kneeling on the ground and holding his left bicep. “Benny? Benny!”

A zombie on the ground, one of the ones Dean had pushed down, was crawling towards him and Benny shuffled away. Dean rushed over and crushed its skull with his boot, enjoying the crunching sound it made. There was something so _satisfying_ about hearing the bones breaking under his foot, brains gushing out in the wake of the damage done.

Good riddance.

Shouldering as much of Benny’s weight as he could, Dean hustled towards the car. The sound of shoes hitting the asphalt behind them pushed him on, “Uriel, open up!”

Uriel opened the back door for Benny, then immediately ducked around the back of the car as more shots fired. Thank god they all missed. And thank god they were being too stupid and not aiming at the tires.

A bullet ricocheted uncomfortably close to Dean’s head. Four more steps and they’d be (relatively) safe in the car.

“We could always just leave hi—”

“It is _very_ important for your health that you don’t finish that thought,” Dean snapped. “So either help me get him in the car or shut the fuck up.”

Uriel opted for the latter, moving around to the driver’s seat. As long as the dick didn’t drive away without them, Dean wouldn’t complain.

With monumental effort, he helped Benny into the car and slammed the door shut. Only Benny’s arm was hit as far as Dean could tell, but he seemed to be going into shock. Dean remembered the attack at Bobby’s shop well enough to know what that was like, the blood loss and the pain and the confusion swirling together and making it almost impossible to function.

By some sort of magic, Dean got into the car without getting shot himself and Uriel immediately sped off. Not bothering to buckle up, Dean twisted around in his seat, first to check on Benny, and then to see who the fuck was shooting at them. There were four of them—two men and two women—standing where they’d been parked moments ago, aiming guns at them until an older man shouted something and they put them down. Then Uriel rounded a corner out of the neighborhood, and they were gone.

From the front seat it was awkward, but Dean kept his attention on Benny. Talked to him, kept him lucid, and occasionally barked at Uriel to hurry the fuck up. If only they had phones or walkie-talkies or something, he could radio ahead and tell Azazel and Alastair to be ready for them. All he could do was babble reassurance to Benny and make sure the bleeding didn’t get too out of hand.

The ride was both the shortest and longest ride of Dean’s life. Every second ticked on, but at the same time it felt never ending and when they actually pulled into the driveway he felt a relief he hadn’t been expecting. Uriel honked the horn a couple times to alert the house, and Dean was immediately out the door and helping Benny.

“What happened?” Azazel demanded.

“Benny got hurt,” Uriel replied succinctly. “We were attacked by the river. No supplies. An entire day, wasted.”

“I’ll get fucking supplies myself if it’ll shut you up,” Dean snapped as he started leading Benny towards the garage. “Somebody help me get him to the clinic.”

No one moved.

“What’s the hold up?” Benny was dead weight at his side, passed out from blood loss or pain or both. If one of them didn’t help Dean, he didn’t stand much of a chance of getting Benny up the steps.

Azazel put his hands in his pockets, eyeing Benny and then Dean. “Was he bitten?”

“What? No, he got shot.”

“Because if he was bitten,” Azazel continued, “better not to waste the supplies on him. We don’t have a lot of antiseptic or pain meds or antibiotics left.”

“He. Wasn’t. Bitten.” His grip on Benny slipped a bit and he had to drop to a knee to rebalance him and push back up. “He was shot. _Obviously_ he was shot. You look, you’ll find a fucking _bullet_ in his arm. Uriel, tell him Benny was shot.”

Azazel and Dean both turned to Uriel, who remained silent. Eventually he inclined his head ever so slightly.

“Big fucking help you are, asshole!” Dean snapped before rounding on Azazel. “See, he was shot. So fix him. _Now_.”

“Alright,” Azazel said with a smile, clapping his hands together. “Uriel, get Ben up on the table. I’ll be up in a moment. Tom, go get Alastair.”

Both men did as they were told; it took Uriel almost no effort to take Benny from Dean and carry him bridal style towards the garage. Dean moved to follow, but Azazel held him back by the sleeve.

“Dean… I’m not going to sugarcoat this for you. Benny’s an excellent supply runner. He’s strong, he’s got a good eye… but he’s not a team player like you are. He makes Tom and Uriel and Alastair uncomfortable since he won’t… _participate_ in questioning people.”

The idea that Benny could make someone like _Alastair_ uncomfortable made Dean want to laugh in Azazel’s face, but this wasn’t the time. Goosebumps rose on his arms because there was a very good chance that Azazel was about to say things that Dean did _not_ want to hear.

“What are you saying? And just come out in say it, don’t… don’t try to sugarcoat it or dance around it. Just fucking _say_ it.”

Azazel huffed out a breath. “Well, to be perfectly candid… He undermines my authority at every turn. Every time he refuses to follow Alastair’s lead and interrogate people, he’s questioning how things are done here. And I know he’s put the idea of leaving into your head, and we need you Dean. You’re one of us, you belong here.”

“Still not hearing what you _mean_ —”

“I’m _saying_ … that you can see why, for me, I can see some _upsides_ to Benny not recovering from this.”

In that instant, Dean could see exactly what Azazel was saying. Not heal Benny, let him bleed out from a very messy wound. Tell everyone he’d been bitten after all. Move on with Dean’s last thread to his old life cut.

Oh _fuck_ no.

Dean grabbed Azazel’s collar and pulled him in. Azazel wasn’t a short man, but Dean towered over him right now. “Let me bottom line this for you… He doesn’t make it, _you_ don’t make it. That enough of an upside for ya?”

Instead of looking intimidated by Dean’s roughness, Azazel carefully put his hands over Dean’s and extracted himself from Dean’s grip. “It’s a long recovery process, even from a wound like this. You remember, don’t you, Dean? He’ll be dead weight that whole time. Needing constant attention and care. Think about how much _easier_ it would be. A lot can happen while someone recovers from a gunshot wound. No one would question it…”

For a moment, Dean stood there quietly. There was no way he could intimidate or force this man to do something he didn’t want to do. He wanted something from Dean, from Benny, and the asshole was using this situation to get it.

And while they argued about it, Benny was bleeding out.

“What do you want?”

Azazel rewarded him with a huge smile and patted him on the shoulder. “I know you’re loyal to the cause Dean. Just wanna make sure you _stay_ that way. You’re good at what you do. Better than Alastair, but don’t tell him I said that. And I know you’ve been _conflicted_ about staying ever since your husband and your boy died. I just want you stay, nothing else.”

“Nothing else?”

“‘Course not. Because a man like you, you’re the type to _remember_. So you’ll remember the debt you already owe me for your own life, and now you’ll remember the one you’re gonna owe me for Benny’s.”

“So, what? I keep on keepin’ on like I have been the last year? Don’t make trouble and don’t try to leave? Because I can do that.” Even as he said it, Dean could feel possibilities dying. He hadn’t seriously thought about leaving yet, but now he was cutting off the option completely.

Oh well. He wasn’t going to risk Benny.

“Alright,” Azazel reached forward to shake Dean’s hand. Dean took it. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a deal.”

Dean Winchester had always been a man of his word. Loyal, honest when he could be, always one to follow through on promises.

The one thing Azazel overlooked was that _that_ Dean Winchester was dead.

Dean sure as fuck wasn’t leaving this place. Not until he could find a way to stab Azazel in the back for thinking gambling with Benny’s life was an acceptable means of controlling Dean.

But not until Benny was healed.


	6. Revenge is a Dish

The hardest part was playing nice. Pretending he wasn’t pissed at Azazel for trying to manipulate him into staying. Pretending everything was the same as it had been; that he wasn’t waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

_Guess Andrea was right about these dicks after all._

_Don’t pretend like you’re surprised by that… They’ve got you torturing people left and right. And you bought into it. Thought it was okay because the world’s a different place now._

_It **is** a different place._

_You still knew it was wrong. Don’t blame them for making you do these things. You did them all on your own. And now you’re going to use everything Alastair taught you. You’re going to wait until Benny’s better. You’re going to be patient, wait them out until they have no reason to think you’re still upset._

_And you’re going to show them just how fucking good you are at hurting people._

Dean slept soundly each night, imagining all the ways he’d get his revenge on Azazel.

\- - - -

Even though Dean knew what to expect from his own recovery, nothing prepared him for how hard it was to watch Benny be so weak. He’d been Dean’s rock through all of this, and Dean would _not_ lose him. Not after Bobby and Andrea and Cas and Henry and everyone else. Benny wasn’t _allowed_ to die.

As soon as Benny’s moved back to their shared room, Dean hovered over him. Without being asked, he did everything he could think of to comfort his friend. Clean blankets, fluffed up pillows, the best food he could whisk away from the kitchens, fresh flowers from Andrea’s garden, anything. Benny asked for none of it, but he allowed Dean to mother hen him. As he pointed out, he was too tired to put up much of a fight anyway.

Taking care of Benny also helped pull Dean back from the edge. Keeping someone _alive_ seemed like a kind of silent trade with whatever deity might be willing to look out for him. He wasn’t _completely_ gone if he could help Benny. He was worth _something_. Maybe even still a good man underneath it all. To keep his end of this unspoken bargain, Dean killed a little less and didn’t torture quite as badly.

Besides, he was saving that for Azazel. And Alastair, too, for good measure. For what he did to Dean on that table months ago, and what he’d been doing to Dean ever since. Bringing him down to _their_ level, letting Dean sink to the same depths as them. The end of the world must’ve been perfect for them, since it allowed them to give their disgusting impulses free rein.

So Dean tried to play nice for a little while. Played nice with Azazel and Alastair, played nice with the people they encountered, and did his best by Benny. Because his friend was going to pull through, whether by fate’s good graces or Azazel’s. He didn’t care, but it was going to happen.

And if it didn’t, well, Dean would probably just murder the world.

\- - - -

Dean didn’t like leaving Benny alone with Lilith and whoever else was staying at the house on any given day, but he was pretty sure he’d bought himself enough good will with Azazel that Benny would be fine. Didn’t mean he wasn’t antsy every time he had to spend a day out grabbing supplies, but hey, he had to be committed to the act. Had to pretend he was fine with this whole set up. Had to pretend he was invested in keeping this little makeshift family going.

Had to pretend he didn’t fall asleep each night imagining all the things he’d do to Azazel.

But his faux commitment was what got him tangled up in another shootout with some random vagrants a few miles west of Richmond. He’d been so gung ho about being supportive, he’d let Tom push them farther towards the city limits than they normally ventured. At a crossroads leading off the highway shots were fired and they had to duck behind some abandoned cars.

Cars with fucking zombies in them, clawing at the windows until the fuckers shooting at them busted the windows. Dean spent more time hacking off their arms with an ax than actually shooting back.

“This is fucking ridiculous!” he hissed at Meg.

“I don’t particularly disagree.” She was wiggling under the car, trying to get a view of their legs. “Maybe we should invest in some molotovs of something. Grenade launcher… tank… nuclear warheads…”

“Yeah, we’ll get right on that.” Though a grenade launcher _would_ be pretty cool…

Dean realized the whole intersection had gone silent, and he looked to Tom a few cars down. Tom shrugged, nodding over the hood of the car. Dean angled the rear view mirror to try and get a better look but couldn’t see past the damn zombies in the car.

“They’re waving a white flag,” Meg said as she reappeared from under the car. “Well, a ratty t-shirt that’s probably more sweat-stained than it is white, but I’m guessing they mean it as a white flag.”

“So what do we do?”

Meg shrugged. “I’m not really big on the whole negotiation thing. Strap ‘em to a chair, I can work them over. Give them guns and a fighting chance…”

Dean ground his teeth to keep from showing how much he fucking hated his life right now. How had it taken this long for him to realize how messed up these people were? And he _liked_ Meg; her and her brother were the most normal of the bunch.

“You guys surrendering?” Dean shouted over the car. With the zombies moaning endlessly from the cars and the nearby streets, he had to really project his voice to be heard clearly.

There was a pause before a woman’s voice called back, “More like a ceasefire.”

“So what’s that mean? We don’t shoot you and you don’t shoot us, and we all just leave and forget this ever happened?”

“Actually, I was hoping we could have a chat. No guns or anything, just some adults using their words to hash things out. Like civilized people used to do.”

“You fucking shot at us! That doesn’t exactly scream ‘civilized’ to me!”

“And you shot back.”

“In self defense!”

“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” Meg mumbled. “We doing this ceasefire or we killing them? Or running away? Running’s always an option. No shame in getting out of here and living to fight another day.”

“What are you two talking about?” Tom whisper yelled. He looked like he wanted to crawl over to them, but there was enough uncovered area between their respective hiding spots that he didn’t want to risk it.

“How pretty Dean would look in a skirt,” Meg shot back. “What the hell do you _think_ we’re talking about?”

“What’ll it be?’ called the woman. She sounded closer than before, so Meg and Dean both tried to look under the car. In the middle of the intersection they could make out three pairs of feet. From this angle, it was impossible to see if they were armed.

“How many of you are there?” Dean asked. Meg nodded in approval but kept quiet. Apparently Dean had volunteered as spokesperson here, and Meg wasn’t going to speak up. Probably better not to expose their own numbers.

“Just the three of us. Me, Tess, and Gad. You?”

“‘Bout the same.” It sure as hell _looked_ like there were only three of them, but there could easily be more hiding nearby. “What’s stopping you from shooting us as soon as we come over there?” Dean’s fingers flexed around his own gun.

“Same thing that’s stopping you from shooting us. This doesn’t end well for any of us if we start getting trigger happy. You guys gonna come out here and chat or what?”

Meg and Dean shared a look, then Meg turned to her brother. “You heard them, Tommy. Why don’t you head over.” She jerked her head in the direction of the other group. “We’ll watch your back.”

“No fucking way,” Tom hissed. There was no way the crowd over there didn’t hear him. “Why don’t _you_ go and _we’ll_ cover _your_ back?”

“We’re waiting…”

“Oh fuck both of you.” Dean slid his gun into the waistband of his pants and slowly stood up, arms raised to show he was unarmed. It was maybe a little suicidal but oh well, a bullet wasn’t such a bad way to go out in the grand scheme of things. Besides, if Meg and Tom were going to be fucking cowards, he might as well move things along.

As calmly as he could, he stepped out from behind the car and approached the group. Dean didn’t spare them more than a glance to make sure they were not, in fact, about to shoot him, then he was turning to nod to Tom and Meg that it was okay. They both grumbled and cursed but followed his lead, weapons holstered. Well, except for Meg’s softball bat, but they probably weren’t too intimidated by that.

They probably should have been; Meg might be small, but she packed quite the wallop with that thing. He actually felt a little better knowing Meg had the bat out and ready to go. At the very least, she’d buy him and Tom the time they’d need to get their guns.

Finally turning his attention back to the group in front of him, he started sizing them up.

A woman with mocha skin and wild, curly hair stood front and center. She wore a leather jacket, despite the summer heat, and looked both amused and bored by this whole meeting. Dean did his best to mimic her demeanor—cool, detached, and in control—as he stepped closer. Soon his eyes drifted to the man and woman flanking her.

The man had maybe a day’s worth of stubble, cluing Dean in that these people likely had a base of operations nearby that was decently supplied. If you were on the run all the time, you didn’t have time to shave, but if you had a place that felt safe, you could worry about such frivolous things like shaving. (Dean of course ignored the fact that both he and Tom were completely clean shaven as well, though he suspected Tom didn’t actually _need_ to shave.) The stranger watched them impassively, hands at his sides but stiff, like he was waiting for a moment’s notice to grab his weapon.

The other woman had dark hair and pale skin. How she’d managed to avoid a tan during the summer was beyond Dean, but here she was, looking like a southern belle. She worried her bottom lip between her teeth and had one arm crossed over her chest defensively. Dean made a mental note: she was the weak link in this group.

The more he looked at them, the more his gut twisted with unease. There was something familiar about them, especially the woman up front. He recognized her, somehow…

“Hey!” he shouted, stopping in his tracks. “You’re the assholes who shot Benny.” Dean’s hand was already at his gun but Meg put a restraining hand on his arm. In that second, he had to choose whether or not he wanted Meg to restrain him or whether he wanted to see this through right now. The odds of getting shot were pretty high, and he was pretty sure if he got Meg or Tom hurt, there was no bargaining chip he could offer Azazel to patch him up. Reluctantly, he didn’t pull out the gun.

“So you’re the assholes from Bensley?” the woman drawled, eyebrow raised. Her hands didn’t even flinch toward her shotgun. “Benny the burly one?”

Anger flooded him, choking him.  All Dean could do was jerk his head in what might have appeared to be a nod.

“He make it?”

“The fact that I stopped Dean-o here from shooting you should tell you all you need to know. If Benny hadn’t pulled through, I don’t think there’s anything on god’s green earth that’d stop him from fucking you up.” Meg released her hold on his arm and smiled sweetly at the strangers. “I’m Meg, by the way. This is my brother Tom. Dean’s our guard dog.”

“Billie,” said the woman up front, then nodded first to her left and then her right. “This is Tessa, and that’s Gadreel. Sorry about your friend. Honest mistake.”

“Yeah,” Dean spat. “Because I know I go around accidentally shooting my gun off at people.”

“We thought you were with Joshua. We’d been coming to… express our hopes that he’d reconsider giving us a cut of his produce, in exchange for our protection. Thought maybe he’d made a deal with another group first. Couldn’t let that slide. Nothing personal, just business. Y’all understand that, right?”

“Seems reasonable,” Meg answered, stepping forward and subtly putting herself between these people and Dean. Not a bad idea; Dean wasn’t sure he’d be able to contain his temper otherwise. The _nerve_ of these assholes. “‘Course that doesn’t explain why you started shooting at us _today_.”

“Another misunderstanding. Thought you were part of Abaddon's group. We’ve been having trouble with them, but they don’t normally drift this far out of the city and they are completely unreasonable… Knew you weren’t them since none of you guys kamikazed us. Figured we’d give you a chance to talk.”

“Well,” Meg said, arms open and fake smile in place, “we’re here. Let’s talk. What the fuck are you dickheads going to do to make up for shooting one of our guys?”

Billie, who’d been the picture of calm composure this whole time, looked taken aback. Granted, Billie’s ‘taken aback’ was a slight frown and blinking a few times, but still. Dean loved it.

“What would you want?”

“Well, _ideally_ , you’d tell us which one of you guys shot him and then we’d get to shoot _them_ in the arm. You know, just to be even stevens.”

“We’re not going to _let_ you shoot—”

“We’re up for a compromise, though. I’m guessing you took Joshua’s haul of plants and goodies. Give us half, since we were the ones who were about to get it all when you showed up.”

Had Dean mentioned that he liked Meg? Definitely his favorite Masters. Hell, he’d do her the favor of letting her live once he fucked up Azazel’s shit six ways from Sunday.

“How about a quarter? We already did the leg work of moving it—”

“Which _we_ would’ve done if y’all hadn’t fucked us over. How ‘bout you give us a third. We’ll let you keep the rest as a finder’s fee. Sound good?”

Billie considered for a moment before nodding. “I can do that.”

Tessa stepped forward, urgently whispering, “No way Crowley’ll go for that—”

“Then too bad he’s not here,” Billie said, loudly interrupting her. Turning back to Meg, she slung her shotgun over her left shoulder and offered her right hand. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Not stepping forward to accept the offered hand, Meg said, “Peachy. You guys can drop it off here tomorrow morning. Just leave it and we’ll pick it up.”

Unbothered that Meg wouldn’t shake on it, Billie shrugged and put her hand down. “Sounds good.”

“Anything else you guys wanna hash out while we’re all here? Maybe sing a little kumbaya and braid each other’s hair to solidify this friendship pact?”

The man—Gadreel, if Dean remembered correctly—tensed. He looked insulted by Meg’s flippant tone, which, granted, was probably Meg’s goal so not a big surprise, but Billie gave him a sharp look and he kept his mouth shut.

“We should talk territory. Second time we’ve run into each other in less than a month… We’re obviously getting closer to each other’s homebase than any of us are comfortable with.”

“I’m not comfortable being in the same state as actual living human beings, so yeah, I get that.”

“Should I get a map?” Tessa offered, already swinging her backpack to the ground and riffling through it.

Meg snorts a laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry but that’s too cute. No, precious, we don’t need a map. The adults can use their words to figure things out.”

Tessa blushed and awkwardly zipped her backpack back up. Dean felt for her; having a twenty-something year old that barely hit 5’5 with heels on talk down to you wasn’t great for anyone’s ego. Then Dean remembered she might’ve been the one who shot Benny, so fuck her.

Ignoring the whole thing, Billie struck her claim. “We want everything north and east of Richmond. You guys can stick to… wherever it is you came from and have been since the world fell.”

“What are the dividing lines, there? What counts as east of Richmond?” Tom asked.

“How ‘bout we use the river? We’ll stick to our side of the river—north and east—and you stick to your side, south and west. Easy enough?”

“We were west of the river when you guys shot Benny,” Dean pointed out. “Hell, we’re west of the river right now.”

Billie and Dean stared at each other, Dean silently daring her to be even _remotely_ unreasonable.

_Just give me an excuse…_

_Let me get revenge on **someone**..._

When Billie finally spoke up, Dean was marginally disappointed. “And we’re giving up some ground for the sake of clarity, that seem fair?”

“Who gives a shit about fair if we’re apparently coming out ahead. Sure, we’ll use the river.”

There wasn’t much to hash out after that. Gadreel warned them to stay out of Bon Air and Richmond because of Queen Abaddon’s gang.

“ _Queen_ Abaddon? I’ll give her points for style, but what the actual fuck,” Dean asked.

Gadreel shrugged. “She even wears a crown.”

“Now you’re just _trying_ to be ridiculous.”

“Gad ain’t exactly the imaginative type,” Bille said affectionately. And that was… strange. She seemed like such a hardass, even to Tess, but she seemed to actually _like_ Gadreel. Not even romantically, just honest to god not _disliking_ him. Weird. Dean filed that away for future reference, in case he needed to put some pressure on Billie later. “So trust me, he’s being literal. She wears an actual crown made of bones. Probably has a throne somewhere.”

“Calls herself Queen of Hell,” Tessa added. “Has her people spraypaint all the road signs so they say Hell instead of Richmond. Puts all her enemies’ heads on spikes on the way into the city. Found that out the hard way when she got her hands on Pamela...”

“Okay, so… avoid the crazy chick.”

“That would be advisable,” Gadreel said while nodding solemnly.

They also agreed to use this same crossroads if they ever needed to contact each other. It was close enough to the river it was reasonable for Billie’s group to head over, and it was far enough away from the Masters home that it didn’t feel like it was dangerous to bring people here.

It became easy to play nice with them, have an actual conversation with people Dean hadn’t been stuck with for the past year, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. If push came to shove, he’d kill them without a second’s thought. Killing people was surprisingly easy when you didn’t know a damn thing about them, when it was you or them, but now Billie, Gadreel, and Tessa were _people_ to him. He’d formed opinions about them, decided they were cool enough that he’d have shared a beer with them if bars were still a thing.

He couldn’t help but wonder if that would keep him from pulling the trigger if he had to.

_One of them shot Benny._

_All of them **tried** to shoot Benny. And me._

_So no, it wouldn’t stop me._

_Might make me feel like shit afterwards, though._

Their tentative alliance—well, alliance was a strong word, more like a truce—agreed upon, the two groups headed their separate ways. And it was pretty telling that all of them chose to back away instead of turn around and expose themselves to getting shot from behind.

“If Dad doesn’t go for this,” Tom said as they drove back, “what are we going to do?”

Meg shrugged. “What’s not to go with? They give us shit from Joshua’s garden, leave us the fuck alone, and all we gotta do is not kill them? Seems pretty easy if they’re sticking to the other side of the river. Besides, maybe we could actually, like… _trade_ with them instead of having to find shit ourselves.”

Turned out Azazel agreed. “Good work. We’ll try to get something going with them, maybe fill in the gaps in our supplies… Worst comes to worst, we can always hunt ‘em down and take everything they have.”

Something almost protective flared in Dean’s chest. Not so much because he gave a shit about Billie and them, but because he couldn’t fucking stand Azazel and wanted to stop him from fucking with people like he had with Dean. Before he could analyze the feeling too closely, though, he disappeared upstairs with some food for Benny.

“You shouldn’t stay holed up in here all day.”

At least the window was open, letting sunlight and a gentle breeze in. Even so, it smelled musty. Dean should probably wash the sheets or something.

“If I’m up here, means Lilith can’t be offering to massage my biceps for me.” Benny shifted on the bed so he was sitting up. It’d taken Dean a while to find enough pillows for it, but Benny was able to lie back at pretty much any angle he wanted and still have enough support for his arm.

“That's your own damn fault for walking around shirtless.”

Putting on shirts was hard because of his injured arm, and Benny said the sleeves constricted his bandaged wound painfully. The end result was him wearing at most an old wife beater, but usually nothing above the waist. Dean liked to tease him about it, but he also couldn't deny that he liked the view.

“I know, I know. I'm too good lookin’ for my own good. My mama told me so and everything.” Benny doggy-eared a page of his book and let it disappear into his pillow nest as he eyed Dean. “What happened today? You look stressed.”

Dean shrugged, handing Benny a sandwich and a warm soda before sitting on the edge of his own bed. “Met the fuckers who shot you today. Want me to kill them for you?”

Benny nearly choked on the first bite of his sandwich, but after a bit of sputtering he recovered quickly enough. “ _Met_ them? As in, talked to them without either of y’all trying to kill each other?”

“Well, there was definitely some shooting, but we’ve apparently moved past that and will be trading with them or some shit. Offer still stands though, if you want me to kill ‘em for you.”

He could feel the full weight of Benny’s stare as he continued eating his sandwich. After the first half was done, he licked his fingers one by one before answering. “I don’t care either way, brother. You feel you gotta kill them, kill them. Just don’t get hurt. So the question’s really, do _you_ want to kill them?”

“I’m not exactly a fan of people who shoot my friends.” Benny gave him a pointed look and Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, fine. No, I don’t want to kill them. I don’t _not_ want to, but I don’t feel like I _have_ to or anything.”

If Benny was surprised or pleased or at all moved by Dean’s answer, he didn’t show it. His only reaction was to nod thoughtfully while finishing the rest of his meal.

It might’ve been petty of Dean, but he’d been hoping for more. Some acknowledgement or praise from his friend on not going on a murderous rampage. Instead he got casual acceptance and this strangely implicit trust that he wasn’t sure he deserved. How many of his friends and family did he need to lose, to allow to get hurt, before Benny stopped seeing him as the ‘good man’ he once was?

Unsettled, Dean left Benny to his dinner and went to grab some guns. Target practice and killing zombies for fun wasn’t as satisfying as some of his torture sessions had been—how could it _really_ be satisfying when zombies didn’t _feel_ the pain you were inflicting, didn’t _care_ about the damage being done to them?—but at least it wasn’t as morally gray. And right now, Dean needed to hear the crunch of breaking bones and the splatter of blood hitting concrete without questioning every fucking bullet.

\- - - -

Whatever it was they were doing with Billie’s gang, it all hinged upon what happened with the supplies from Joshua’s place.

Dean went with Uriel to pick everything up. Dean wanted to see it through and couldn’t deny he was super curious. His own personal read on the situation made him think he could take Billie at her word (and if not Billie, definitely Tessa). Even if Crowley or whoever else was in their group didn’t like the deal Billie’d made, Dean figured the worst they’d get would be an empty crossroads.

But just in case, he’d specifically chosen Uriel to back him up. He might not give a shit about Benny, but Uriel sure as fuck gave a shit about himself. These people had shot at him, so if he so much as smelled a double cross, Uriel wouldn’t hesitate to fuck them up. As vicious as Alastair and Tom could be when someone was strapped to a table or chair, Uriel was the big guns, the guy you wanted watching your back in an even fight.

It turned out the precaution wasn’t necessary. There were some plastic bins left at the crossroads. Dean and Uriel scouted around to make sure they were alone, then looked through the bins before loading them up. Nothing but food and a few other random supplies like blankets and candles, all of which Uriel confirmed he’d seen inside Joshua’s house. Dean questioned whether or not the four boxes really added up to a third of what they’d taken, but he wasn’t in a position to complain. They’d be eating fresh strawberries today and there were at least a couple books to read.

Dean grabbed a post-it and left it on one of the nearby cars. Before they’d parted ways, they’d killed the few zombies trapped inside, and damn if they didn’t stink up the place as they rotted in the summer heat, but where else was he going to leave a note? He figured if they came back, they’d notice the bright yellow on the windshield, the inside of it covered in dried black blood. It was simple enough, just a ‘thanks for the grub’ and ‘hope to do business with you again.’

Even so, Dean found himself wanting to head back and check for a reply a few days later. It got to the point that he snuck out on his own, just to satisfy his own curiosity. When he saw the paper held down by the wipers of the same car, he smiled and read it.

_Pleasure’s all ours._

_You got extra supplies to trade let us know._

_Sure we can work something out._

And just like that, they had another way of getting supplies.

Once a week, someone would head over to check for messages. If they needed something, they’d leave a list. If Billie and them needed something, they’d do the same. Most of the time, they’d leave the requested supplies and let the other group decide a fair trade for it. More often than not, they traded like for like: food for food, books for books, clothes for clothes. It was pretty nice, being able to get new books in or trade ill-fitting clothes for something that was actually long enough or not snug around the waist.

Sometimes, though, the trades were more complex than that. Azazel and them had lots of food they were willing to trade for the right price. They also had a decent supply of guns and ammo, but it was pretty universally agreed on by the group not to mention any of that. The problem was some other essential (or, at the very least _useful_ ) items were ones they hadn’t really focused on in those first few months.

Things like thread and soap and car parts hadn’t been huge priorities but were now things they needed. What Dean wouldn’t give for something as simple as a month’s supply of deodorant and maybe a pair of sunglasses. And all of this completely random shit you’d have to luck your way into, Billie’s group had it. No matter how obscure the request, they seemed to be able to get it. The problem was, once they realized Azazel’s group wanted it, the price went up significantly.

For trades like that, actual face-to-face meetings were necessary. Neither group seemed to want to expose their real numbers more than they had to (or maybe that was just them, and Billie’s group really was as small as they appeared), so it was usually Meg or Dean meeting with Billie or Cain. The first time Dean met Cain, he felt he recognized the older man as part of that original group they ran into out by Joshua’s place. And as much as he wanted to hate him for possibly being the one who shot Benny, Dean really couldn’t. The guy was too damn nice, though not soft. He understood Dean’s struggle with staying alive and enjoying some of the things he had to do in the process.

“It’s okay to like killing, Dean,” he told him one meeting. “We all have things we’re not proud of. None of us can come out of this unscathed. The standards we used to live by no longer apply, so don’t judge yourself by them. Come up with your own standards, ones you can live with so you can still look at yourself in the mirror.”

Admittedly, though, half of Cain’s appeal was the honey he gave Dean every time they met. He couldn’t possibly know that it reminded Dean of Castiel, who’d always wanted his own beehive. Couldn’t know that Dean hoarded each and every jar. That he took it out with him on his joyrides and ate it greedily while imagining things were the way they used to be. That he was safe at home and Cas was inside baking biscuits and Henry was doing his homework. That it cut Dean to the core when he licked the last drops from his fingers and remembered all too well where he _really_ was and who he’d _really_ be going home to.

Cain couldn’t have known all of that, but he must’ve seen how Dean’s eyes lit up that first time he offered a jar.

More and more, Dean and Cain would stay to chat long after their ‘business’ was complete. Unlike _anyone_ else he’d met since the world went to shit, Dean considered Cain a friend. Not someone he was forced to work with like Azazel and even Billie. An honest to god friend. Someone he would’ve gladly hung out with back… well back _then._ Invited him over for cookouts. Let babysit Henry while he and Cas went out. Given him a discount at Singer Salvage. The whole nine yards.

And that kind of sealed things for Dean.

Once Benny was better, Dean would take care of Azazel and they’d run away. Run to Cain and Billie and live with their group. No way they wouldn’t want muscle like them backing them up, and no way they wouldn’t like the inside information they had on the Masters clan.

All Dean had to do was wait and figure out the right time to approach Cain about it.


	7. The Enemy of My Enemy

**** Unfortunately for Dean’s plans, Benny got better around the time winter reared its head.

The last winter had been mild—maybe mother nature cutting them some slack for all the other shit they’d have to deal with—but this year it didn’t hold back. The temperatures dipped in mid-October (or at least, Dean  _ thought _ it was October) and never came back up. Heating the house had been troublesome enough last year, and now it was damn near impossible. The summers weren't so bad since the trees provided ample shade over half the house, but the fireplace just wasn't up to the task of heating the large house. The only rooms that were decently warm were the kitchen with its brick oven, the living room that housed the fireplace, and the two bedrooms directly above them.

How convenient those rooms happened to be the master bedroom and the guest room Alastair was staying in.

Everyone else had learned from last winter to spend the year collecting blankets and warm clothing. Dean had also found a few hot water bottles for himself and Benny, though he traded one of them to Meg in exchange for a bottle of bourbon she’d found in an abandoned car. Even when it hit below freezing, Dean felt it was a fair trade. That bottle had lasted him two whole joyrides around Chesterfield and even left him a little to share with Cain—no way he could regret it.

It was always an option to camp out in the living room, which everyone ended up doing at least a couple times, but no one liked to do it. Even with the camaraderie they’d built up over the past year and a half (“Tolerance,” Dean corrected whenever Benny tried to say otherwise. “We’re not friends with each other. We  _ tolerate  _ each other.”), they all craved privacy and their own space. As much as possible, Dean and Benny holed up in their own room.

Dean wasn’t sure how it happened, but one night he’d been so damn cold, shivering in his blankets that he couldn’t stand it. He was too tired to go downstairs, and the idea of walking across the cold wood floor wasn’t exactly an incentive, either. Half-asleep, he’d grabbed his mountain of blankets and shuffled over to Benny’s bed. Benny’d squinted at him for a few seconds before scooting over and making room. With two people heating up the blankets, the cold was a lot more bearable.

The next night, Dean had looked over at his bed, then over to Benny’s. The choice had been pretty easy after that.

They didn’t talk about it. They both needed to stay warm, right? They were friends. It was the end of the world, for fuck’s sake. It didn’t mean anything. And the few times Dean woke up with his arm wrapped around Benny (or vice versa), well, he was lonely. He was as touched starved as he’d ever been, so what was the harm in taking comfort in that? They didn’t have anyone else but each other. 

Dean probably spent too much time thinking about it. Justifying it. Making excuses when he woke up hard and had to resist the urge to press into Benny’s body for a second of relief. And then one morning he woke up to hooded eyes watching him, and he figured why the hell not?

It only took a slight shift of his hips for his cock to line up with Benny’s, as hard and aching as his own, and they both moaned together. 

Benny took control and Dean let him. Let Dean trail kisses long his jaw. Dean rolled onto his back and let Benny settle between his legs. Angled himself so that Benny could open him up while languidly stroking his cock. It’d been so long since Dean had been touched like this, he fell into it wholeheartedly. Sighed and groaned and whimpered with each touch, spread his legs and dug his blunt fingernails into Benny’s neck as Benny pushed inside.

“Oh fuck so good babe so good…”

The eyes were the wrong shade of blue, but in the dull morning light filtering through the curtains, they were so damn close,  _ so so _ close that Dean could pretend, please just let him pretend a little longer…

“So good, Cas, always so good…”

The thrusts into him stopped abruptly. 

“Don’t stop, baby,” Dean whined, wiggling his hips in encouragement. 

“Dean, what are you doing?”

The eyes and the scruff weren’t right, but he could’ve ignored that. The voice, though… there was no ignoring that.

Benny started to pull out and Dean wrapped his legs tightly around him to hold Benny in place. “Don’t—”

“We’re clearly not on the same page here.”

“I just… can’t you let me pretend?”

“Pretend what? That I’m Cas and let us fuck it out? Maybe do it again tomorrow morning, too?”

“Yes!” Dean shouted. “Fuck yes! Don’t you wanna pretend I’m Andrea? That’s half the reason I bottomed—”

“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that.” 

This time when Benny moved to pull out, Dean let him. With him gone, the bed felt bigger and emptier than it had any right to feel. Dean wrapped the blankets around himself, ignoring the trail of lube leaking out of his ass and his rapidly flagging erection. This moment was embarrassing enough without acknowledging how physically uncomfortable he was. 

“I ain’t here trying to  _ remember _ my dead wife. I’m tryin’ to  _ forget _ her. I’m trying to move on. I can’t live in the past, brother. And I don’t think you should either.”

“Great fucking advice,” Dean grumbled, rolling over so he could face the wall. “Like I don’t know Cas is dead. I just wanted a fucking moment where I could pretend he wasn’t. Thanks for ruining that.”

“Dean…” 

“Forget it,” he snapped. God, he  _ really _ needed them to forget his ever happened. Forget that for a few seconds, when he wasn’t fixated on the idea of Cas, he’d  _ wanted _ Benny there with him. 

As if fucking someone else wasn’t already betraying Cas’ memory, Dean hadn’t even been able to keep up the damn illusion.

He couldn’t see Benny, but Dean could imagine the concerned look on his face. Dean screwed his eyes shut and willed the mental image to disappear. Instead he focused on the sounds of Benny shuffling around. A drawer opening, a zipper being pulled up, boots replacing the sound of socked feet walking around. 

“If you ever wanna… Wanna do that again, I’m up for it, but it’s gotta be you and me. No ghosts of Andrea or Cas or anyone else, okay?”

Benny waited for an answer but eventually gave up and headed out. Only once the door clicked shut and Benny’s footsteps disappeared down the hallway did Dean let out a shuddering breath. If a few tears fell, too, nobody had to know but Dean.

\- - - -

Dean thinks about Benny’s offer. Thinks about it a lot, actually. Him and Benny? Yeah, he’d kind of like that. They’ve been friends for a long time, know each other’s quirks better than their own. They worked together for years, too, so they know from experience that they mesh well. Hell, Dean and Cas were friends first before—

And that was always where that thought ended. Castiel was dead, plain and simple, and there was nothing Dean could do to take that back. And yet there was something about moving on with someone else, whether for sex or a fling or maybe more, that was so damn  _ final _ . Cas was the fucking love of his life, and it’d been just over a year since he died. His world should be  _ shattered _ . What kind of person did that make Dean, that he could move on so quickly? 

‘Course, he knew the man he was now. The type of man who kills without question. Who  _ tortures _ people. He’s not a man Cas would recognize, and certainly not one Cas would love. Even if Cas always saw the good in him, Dean was painfully aware that there was less and less good left in him.

As soon as the snow melted enough to travel back to the crossroads, he’d try to schedule a meeting with Cain. He needed to get himself and Benny the fuck out of here.

\- - - -

It took months for him to get a decent opportunity. Once winter died out, there were a ton of freshly thawed zombies to deal with, and that took priority. Granted, they were slower than usual, joints too frostbitten to work properly (even by zombie standards), but their numbers made up for that. The living who’d been hiding in the area but succumbed to the elements added to the swarms around Chesterfield, and the way to their crossroads meeting place was blocked for a while. Being stuck behind snowdrifts had dwindled their supplies, though, and trading was on the forefront of everyone’s minds.

Well, either that or stretching out further west. 

Zachariah and Uriel in particular didn’t much care for their new neighbors on the other side of the river, and stressed finding their  _ own _ supplies. Uriel had never forgiven Billie and the others for shooting at them and wasn’t prepared to play nice now. Even the cigars they occasionally got for Uriel weren’t enough to persuade him otherwise. And Zachariah was just an ass. Somehow he got it in his head that if their group was doing well,  _ he _ was an integral part of that. As if “guarding” the car while everyone else risked their necks scrounging up supplies was so fucking valuable.

Honestly, if the man disappeared, Dean couldn’t be sure anyone would even notice for a solid week, and then it’d only be because they’d realized how  _ quiet _ things were around the house.

But Meg wanted new clothes, Lilith wanted to trade romance novels with Tessa, and Dean pretended he wanted some damn honey. With the three of them as the driving force, they got communication up and running again. It took a couple hits and misses—a rainstorm destroyed one of their messages and they missed a few replies because they were too busy dealing with a fire that had broken out in a nearby neighborhood—but eventually communication was back up and trades were going again.

All Dean had to do was wait for one that required a face-to-face meeting and he’d start testing the waters.

The opportunity didn’t take long to present itself. Once again, Billie’s group wanted ammo and weapons, and Dean volunteered to negotiate. Not that there was much to negotiate; the answer was no, and would remain no. At best, they’d offer some melee weapons or the arrows they’d picked up. They were meant for a crossbow (probably? none of them were exactly experts) but they a.) didn’t have a crossbow and b.) would be awful shots even if they  _ did _ have one. 

Dean and Cain shook hands, got their business chat out of the way, then spent the next few hours catching up over a jug of moonshine.

“You assholes make moonshine?” Dean said as he took his first sip. “Correction: you assholes  _ try _ to make moonshine? Because this is some awful shit right here. Tastes like fucking battery acid.”

“True enough.” Cain laughed. “But it does the job just fine. Knock you on your ass if you aren’t careful.”

He wasn’t lying, but it helped loosen Dean’s tongue enough to get out what he needed to. He had to wait for the right opportunity, but as soon as Cain started talking about his garden and bees, he figured that was as good an in as any.

“Sounds like a nice place you guys got for yourselves. Wouldn’t mind seeing it.” 

Cain’s eyes narrowed, crinkling at the edges. His tone was perfectly neutral. “That so?”

“Yeah.” Dean tried for casual, but looked intently at Cain and prayed he could read between the lines. “Me and my friend Benny, we’d probably enjoy living in a place like what you guys have. Hell, we’d probably like it a lot better than where we are now.”

“Is that so? Anything…  _ in particular _ about your current living arrangement that doesn’t suit you?”

Dean wondered how close to the truth he should get. He had to give Cain a real reason, but he didn’t want to give him fodder that might somehow get back to Azazel. If Cain said the wrong thing to Billie, who said the wrong thing to Meg… Not that he didn’t trust Cain, but he still had to cover his ass. 

“Could use a change of pace. Wasn’t ever really an option before.”

Silence fell over them. Dean took a sip from the jug before passing it back to Cain, who finished off the rest of it. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he smiled and offered a hand to Dean. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Later that week, way sooner than Dean expected anything, there was another request for a meeting. This time, they were asking for a chance to trade ammunition. 

Azazel threw a damn fit. “You go there and you find out  _ everything _ you can.” He slammed his fist on the dining room table, startling Zachariah. Lilith smiled sweetly at him in apology, but he still didn’t look completely mollified. Ignoring them all, Azazel leaned in and pointed a finger at Dean. “I’m talking what type of bullets they need, what type of guns they have, how many they have, everything. If they so much as have a place they do target practice, I wanna know about it.”

Dean leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “How badly you want that info? This a chat where I try to find this shit out or you want me to uh… make it a little less friendly?”

That would actually be pretty problematic, but Dean had to play the part of good soldier at least for now. If Azazel wanted him to torture Cain, that’d force Dean’s hand sooner than he’d like. He’d rather have the luxury of weighing his options, take the safest approach as he jumped ship. 

Hopefully leaving this one to sink.

Face flushed red, Azazel seemed sure to give the kill order, but his brother placed a calming hand on his shoulder. “The boy’s a master. Let him work. Sometimes you catch more flies with honey than oil. Dean’s smart enough to know which is which.”

Weird to have Alastair support him, but then he turned his icy, unfeeling gaze to Dean and he got it. Alastair thought Dean was like him. Bloodthirsty. Cold-blooded. Someone who loved cutting people a little too much. He looked at Dean like he  _ knew _ Dean was just itching to get his hands on a blade and a victim to use it on.

The worst part was, he wasn’t entirely wrong. The power of holding someone’s life in your hands, it gave Dean a thrill.

“Fine,” Azazel snapped. “I’ll leave that up to your discretion. Don’t make me regret it.”

“No, sir. Wouldn’t want that.” Azazel didn’t appreciate the sass, so Dean rolled his eyes. “C’mon, like I don’t know what I’m doing. Trust me.”

_ You’ll regret it, but yeah, trust me. _

\- - - -

That night, Benny followed Dean along on his patrol of the grounds. Dean had a good idea what it was about, so he didn’t complain about the company. He needed to talk to Benny about this anyway. They both waited until they were out of earshot of the house, but kept their voices low anyway.

“What’s going on with you and Azazel? He’s orderin’ you around like he owns you.”

“He thinks he does.” Dean shines the flashlight across the fence, looking for signs of damage. 

“And  _ why _ does he think that?”

“I uh… kinda told him he does? He wanted me to ‘convince him’ of my loyalty before he’d pull that bullet out of your arm.”

They walk on another ten yards before Benny whispered, “Were you serious when you told him that?”

“No!” They freeze, listening intently to see if Dean’s shouting disturbed any nearby zombies. Silence greeted them, so they carried on. “No!” he hissed. “I didn’t fucking mean it. Soon as he started  _ demanding  _ I fall in line or he’d let you die, he lost my goodwill. I’m gonna rip that motherfucker apart—”

“Dean… I appreciate you lying to save me and all—really, I do—but what’s the plan here? You think you can up and kill Azazel without there being repercussions?”

“I mean, I’ll probably have to gank Alastair, too, but that ain’t exactly a problem for me. After what that fucker did to me…” He shuddered, thinking about being strapped down as Alastair poked and prodded and cut, all in the name of ‘checking his wounds.’

“You mean with the torture?”

Dean’s head whipped around, wondering how the hell Benny knew about that. Then it dawned on him that Benny meant  _ teaching _ Dean how to torture. 

“Yeah,” he said, voice hoarse. “That.”

Thank god it had been Azazel who’d been the one to treat Benny, otherwise Dean wouldn’t have been able to stand idly by and wait. Azazel might be an asshole and not above killing people, but unlike Alastair, he didn’t get off on hurting others. Controlling them, maybe, but inflicting pain didn’t get him off. 

“You still haven’t told me what you’re up to. And don’t give me that ‘I’m not up to anything’ bullshit. You just said you wanted to kill Azazel and Alastair, and that ain’t something you’d just  _ mention _ unless you’d put some real thought behind it.”

“Well…” They were more than halfway down their rounds, headed back to the house for the night. Dean didn’t have time to safely explain everything, so he decided to tell Benny the one thread he was hoping would pan out. “We need a place to go, don’t we? Cain and Billie and them don’t seem so bad.”

“But—”

Dean elbowed him in the ribs, pointing to the flickering light at the kitchen window. Benny grumbled under his breath but otherwise shut up. It wasn’t until they were in bed that night—their  _ own _ beds, since Dean was undecided what to do about the whole Benny thing and he didn’t have frigid temperatures as an excuse anymore—Benny rolled over to face Dean across the moonlit room. 

“You know,” he whispered, “we can just  _ go _ . That’s the beauty of it being the end of the world. Don’t gotta have a destination in mind, just a direction.”

Unable to think of a suitable response, Dean didn’t answer. Something about leaving Virginia terrified him. He’d planned to spend his life here, with his husband and his son, and it didn’t sit right with him to leave, with or without them. 

They’d died here, and it seemed only right that he did, too.

\- - - -

Cain was leaning against the side of his car. It was a beat up old Mercedes, one that had clearly been on its dying leg  _ before _ the world ended and was probably only still running because Cain was too stubborn to let the junker die. There wasn’t much space at the intersection with both Cain’s car and the Impala there, but it didn’t feel crowded or suffocating like it usually did to be closed in. It spoke a lot to how much Dean trusted Cain and this meeting spot that he didn’t feel on edge and wasn’t constantly looking over his shoulder for signs of attack.

“Dean,” Cain said fondly as he pushed off from the car and met him halfway. They shook hands before Cain drew back. “I think it’s time for you to meet the boss.”

On cue, the passenger door of Cain’s car opened. Dean’s hand instinctively flew to his gun, but he forced himself to relax when he saw a rather unimposing man step out of the car and walk towards them.

“So you’re the infamous Dean Winchester.” Despite being several inches shorter than both Dean and Cain, the man carried himself confidently, like he was king of the world and the rest of them hadn’t yet figured it out yet. “I must say, you’re not what I expected.”

“And who the fuck are you?” He turned to Cain, ignoring the man. “Who the fuck is he?”

“This is Crowley. He’s in charge of our little group.”

“You?” He gave the man another once over. Sure, the guy seemed self-assured, but nothing about him screamed ‘leader.’ Certainly not the type of leader who’d get people like Billie and Cain to fall in line. “I’m supposed to believe some smarmy Brit—”

“Scottish, actually, and you’re free to believe whatever you want. But if you plan on actually following through with this plan of yours to join us at our compound, then you should probably listen to your friend here.”

Unable to shake all of his skepticism, Dean raised an eyebrow. “For real? Billie answers to you?”

“To be honest, she’s not really the submissive type, but yes, when push comes to shove, she does as she’s told. Do I expect her to cry at my funeral? No, but as long as she obeys until then, I don’t particularly care.”

There was a hint of authority in the way Crowley spoke, and finally the whole picture was coming together. Yeah, he could see people listening to this man. Must’ve been one hell of a fight between him and the others, though. 

His eyes flashed to Cain for confirmation, and Cain gave him a half shrug and a slight nod. Oh yeah, there was definitely a story here. Hopefully he’d get the chance to hear it. 

“So…” Dean started.

“So,” Crowley agreed. “If I understand things correctly, you want to leave your group and join our lot instead. Is that right?”

“Me and my friend Benny, yeah.”

“The same Benny who one of my men shot? Because if this is a revenge thing—”

“It’s not.” Dean really meant it, too. “I’m not saying I don’t care that Benny got shot—I will  _ always _ care if Benny gets shot, and if it happens again, I  _ will _ kill whoever tries it—but I’m not upset about you guys shooting at us. You didn’t know us, we didn’t know you… I’m willing to let bygones be bygones.”

“How noble of you.” Crowley’s tone was mocking, but Dean brushed it off. He doubted anything Crowley said to him could measure up to the shit he’d put up with from Alastair, Azazel, and Uriel. “So you’re bored of whatever domestic bliss your group has, and you decided to browse for another?”

“Not quite.”

“Then enlighten me.”

Dean licked his lips, preferring to direct his attention to Cain. Cain he knew. There wasn’t this game of probing each other for weaknesses, and for better or worse, Cain wasn’t going to judge him for anything he said now. He’d already heard the worst of what Dean had done; Cain wouldn’t turn his back on him now.

“Me and Benny ended up there by accident back on day one. Haven’t been able to get out of there. Either I was hurt or his wife was hurt or he was hurt… Or we didn’t have anywhere to go. Nobody’s hurt, and I’ve fucking had it with Azazel and his bullshit. I want out, and I’m willing to help you guys however you want 

“Cain tells me Benny’s wife died.”

“Yeah.”

“So it’d just be the two of you?” Crowley didn’t wait for an answer, just brainstorming out loud. “And you want this… this Azazel person dead?”

“And his brother, Alastair.”

“So that’s your price? You join us, and we make sure Azazel and Alastair die?”

“Hell, I’ll gank ‘em myself if I have to. I really just need a safe harbor. Figure I won’t be too welcome there once I take them out.”

Cain laughed at that, ignoring a curious look from Crowley.

“So that’s all you want?” He waited for Dean to nod. “Seems reasonable. We’ll have to clear out a storage room for you boys, but I’m sure we can make it work.”

That… was too easy.

“What’s the plan, then? I take out Alastair and Azazel, meet y’all up and everything’s hunky dory?”

“Not quite. I’m going to need more than just your word that you’re switching your allegiance. You tell me everything you can about your group. How many of you there are. Where you live. What weapons you have. Any relevant combat weaknesses and strengths we should know about. Maybe steal some guns and ammo if you can. We’ll handle the rest.”

And there it was.

Dean drew a hand over his face and sighed. “You gonna kill them all?”

Crowley shrugged. “You tell me. Will they fall in line if they’re surrounded and outmatched? I need numbers—people and guns—to deal with Abaddon. Your group currently serves their purpose of funneling supplies to us, but I’d rather have your guns than the trinkets and paltry food stores you send our way. And I’d rather have someone like you and your friend Benny working  _ for _ me than out there potentially working  _ against  _ me or worse, for Abaddon. If there are others that might come with you, I’m all for it. And if they’d rather die protecting what they have...”

Fuck.

“So you’re going to kill them.”

A pause. “If I have to.”

In all honesty, he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Azazel and Alastair, sure, fuck ‘em. But the others? Tom wasn’t so bad, even considering the Cas/Henry thing. Meg was kind of spunky. He’d never admit it out loud, but Dean liked their banter. Lilith was… Okay, Lilith was weird as fuck, with her suggestive comments and how she never seemed to button up her shirts enough, but she didn’t deserve to  _ die _ because of that. Probably. And Uriel and Zachariah, well, they were— 

“Stop thinking so hard.” Crowley rolled his eyes dramatically. “Make a damn list if you need to, and I’ll do my best to spare the lives of those you think won’t cause trouble later. ‘Course if they put up a fight, I can’t be held response for what my people do to defend themselves.”

“And just like that...you’ll let me and Benny join you guys?”

“If you can help us neutralize your group and gain some of the guns I  _ know _ you have, then yes, just like that. I’ve got enough on my plate right now, and I’d rather have fewer pieces on the board.” He offered Dean his hand. “Deal?”

Dean stared at the hand stretched out to him, a large garnet ring catching the light. 

“Deal.”


	8. The Coup d'Etat

They hammered out all the details as quickly as possible. Aside from his deal with Crowley, they needed to complete the actual trade that Azazel thought they were doing. Cain gave Dean some ‘information’ to share with his group to make things seem kosher for a while longer. Made up things like types of guns they have and ammo they’re willing to trade, how many of them there are, complete with names.

“You do realize this means you’re either going to have to trade the shotgun shells you’re offering or we’re gonna have to get this done before then,” Dean pointed out.

“Let’s get it done before then,” Crowley said. “No need to drag this out. We’ll say the meeting’s in ten days. That should give you plenty of time to do what you need to on your end and for us to do our part.”

Ten days to steal as many guns and weapons as he could. Ten days to drop off a map and detailed notes on Azazel’s home and their group. Ten days left to play nice.

If he’d managed to deal with them for going on two years now, Dean figured he could handle ten measly days.

\- - - -

Azazel was satisfied with both the trade Dean had worked out (highly favorable to them, but since it was all made up, of course it was) and even happier to learn more details about their mysterious trade partners. Only Alastair seemed disappointed, clicking his tongue when he found out Dean hadn’t tortured Cain.

“There a problem?” Dean asked, barely holding back a sneer.

“No problem,” Alastair said. “Just wondering if you’re getting soft.”

 _Ten days_ , he reminded himself. Dean allowed himself three whole breaths to calm down before he asked, “You don’t trust my judgement?” There was only a hint of bite behind it, hopefully sounding more annoyed than defensive.

The unspoken challenge Dean had issued had everyone staring at them. He wanted to look around, see what they thought about it, but he kept his focus on Alastair.

Eventually, Alastair sighed and shook his head. “I do trust your judgement. I know you’re thirsty for a chance to hack someone open, just like me and Tom are, but you’re smart enough to read the situation and know if it’s too risky. If you didn’t tear him apart or flay him alive, you had your reasons.”

Was that a compliment?

Dean had no choice but to thank him as though it was. As soon as it was even remotely reasonable, he snuck out of the house to take a ride in Baby. He needed to clear his head on the open road, windows down and cassette tapes blasting.

And he needed time to work.

He found a lonely spot on the side of the road—not a zombie in sight, not even a hint of the stench that followed them around, decay and rot and all other sorts of nastiness that was hard as hell to get rid of—and sat on the hood of the Impala. He raided the glove compartment first, grabbing the Sharpie he kept there and every scrap of paper he could find.

There was a map, thank god, so he started there. In as much detail as he could, he outlined where Azazel’s house was and all the areas they’d already looked as a group. He marked the roads they used most often and blacked out the ones that weren’t clear. He added notes about their patrol routes and when they usually happened, showed the shooting range they’d set up in the woods for target practice. Everything he thought might be remotely helpful, he wrote down.

Then he went about ruining his copy of _Slaughterhouse Five_ , a book he’d only gotten recently thanks to Cain. There weren’t a whole lot of options on where to write, so he used what he had. He started on the covers and then worked in. He tried to focus on facts (Zachariah couldn’t aim and so didn’t carry a gun around, but he had a crowbar he favored and had a decent swing) instead of opinions (Uriel’s a bag of dicks). There wasn’t a lot of room to write and he didn’t have a whole lot of time; better to focus on the big picture stuff and ignore the rest.

Only once it had gotten too dark to see properly did he stop, tucking the map and book back into the glove compartment under his flashlight, a dagger, and a bottle of hand sanitizer. It wasn’t like people looked through his car, but he wasn’t taking any chances with this. People were going to die, some deserving it, and some not. Either way, Dean couldn’t deny it was a betrayal. If they found out what he was planning…

Well, he really didn’t want to end up back on Alastair’s table.

\- - - -

Paranoia was a scary thing, but Dean didn’t give a shit. Desperate to make sure no one could overhear them, that night he slipped into Benny’s bed once more. Benny went rigid, giving Dean a questioning look, but Dean shook his head.

“Need to talk to you,” he breathed out. “If you want a reach around, that’ll have to wait.”

Benny snorted and relaxed. “Aren’t you a flirt.”

“You know it.” Part of Dean wanted to keep the banter going, but between his indecision about this whole Benny thing and the stress he was dealing with right now, he decided against it. Now wasn’t the time or the place. Maybe when they were safely out of here and at Crowley’s compound. “I met Crowley today.”

“Crowley?”

“He’s in charge of Cain and Billie and them. I got a plan to get us out of here.”

They stayed up late talking in heated whispers. If anyone were to walk in or hear them from the hallway, it’d be easy to assume they were two lovers murmuring endearments to each other. Instead they plotted their escape, argued over whether or not there was a way to do this without getting hurt or killed, and maybe dreamed about what they’d do once they were out of there.

Benny had already been stealing ammo and other supplies little by little, taking whatever he could carry discreetly whenever he went to his old place to work on the garden. He’d apparently been doing it since Andrea died and had doubled his efforts after they found out about Cas. Guns, bullets, food, clothes… Basically anything they’d need to start off on their own.

“I said I didn’t want to leave,” Dean said suspiciously. “You said you were fine staying.”

“Figured you might change your mind. No harm in being prepared.”

Dean chuckled. That was about when he realized his hand was resting on Benny’s hip, nothing but the threadbare material of Benny’s boxers separating them.

“Nope,” he said, fingers caressing along the waistband. “Guess not.”

Benny shuffled closer, barely an inch between them now. “I can’t say I’m thrilled with this whole thing, but I gotta say… I’m proud of you for not wanting to kill Azazel yourself.”

“Who says I don’t want to?”

“Well then, I’m proud of you for not insisting on doing it yourself. How’s that?”

The conversation died out after that, the mood between them shifting. The air was practically electric with possibility. All it would take is for one of them to lean in and bridge the small gap between them. Unable to come up with a reason not to, Dean drifted forward until his lips were brushing against Benny’s.

After a second’s hesitation, Benny kissed him. It was hungry, intense but still controlled. When they broke apart, Dean found himself wanting more.

“Dean…” He ran his thumb over Dean’s cheek. “You here with me?”

“I know who I’m with,” Dean said. There was no denying he’d rather have Cas with him, but he was past using Benny as a surrogate for his dead husband. He and Benny were it now, and maybe he could live with that. “But uh… let’s maybe dial down the intensity for a bit, okay?”

“Sure.” Benny wrapped an arm around Dean’s waist and gave him a chaste kiss. “This alright?”

“Fuck yes.” And dammit, Dean’s voice did _not_ quiver.

They didn’t talk about Crowley or Azazel for the rest of the night.

\- - - -

Every morning when Dean woke up, he had to psych himself up to get out of bed. Nine more days. Eight more days. Only a week left. Six days, just six more days.

It didn’t help that he didn’t want to leave the comfort of Benny’s bed.

They hadn’t done more than make out and literally sleep together, but the comfort he got from falling asleep in someone’s arms was a huge relief on his shot nerves.

He’d already dropped off his notes with Cain, and now it was just a matter of waiting things out. That meant playing nice with everyone and pretending it was business as usual on supply runs. And damn if he wasn’t ending up on _every_ supply run. After that whole not torturing Cain thing, Alastair got it in his head that Dean needed to ‘let loose.’

“You find him someone to rip apart,” he said to Meg as they packed up the car.

“Sure thing,” Meg answered sweetly. If he didn’t know better, Dean would think she was being genuine, but he could hear the condescension in her tone. Her and her uncle didn’t exactly argue or anything, but they weren’t close. When things went down, she wouldn’t shed a tear for him.

They were up along the southern edges of the James River. Tom was always goading them to cross the river and explore. Dean doubted Tom had any particular interest in anything on the other side of the river; it was more the thrill of breaking their ‘treaty’ and the risk of getting caught.

“Shut the fuck up, Tom,” Meg snapped, and Dean couldn’t help but think she was a hero for it. Tom rarely listened to Dean or Uriel or even Alastair when they told him to stick to their side of the river, but Meg never took his shit and he usually backed down. “We’re already close enough to Bon Air we might have to deal with this Abaddon chick, which don’t get me wrong, sounds fun, but I don’t wanna deal with getting shot at by _two_ groups at once. You wanna do something suicidal, do it on your own time.”

Tom balked at his sister but kept his mouth shut, though it didn’t stop him from staring longingly at the shoreline.

They were just about ready to head back, Meg slamming the trunk shut as Dean headed to the driver’s seat, when a flash of movement caught his attention. He turned automatically to track it, trying to figure out if it was a flash of light, or maybe an animal. Wild dogs weren’t uncommon, and the more overgrown the cities and roads became, the more they saw deer and other animals leaving the safety of the forests.

The only thing Dean was sure of was that it wasn’t a zombie; even with the small glimpse he’d gotten, it had been too fast, too coordinated.

Could be a person.

The thought had barely crossed his mind when he saw it again, the sight of people running from car to car, ducking down and looking around before darting to the next one. They were most likely making a break for the bridge across the river.

Force of habit demanded he draw his gun and take aim. Dean fired a warning shot at one of the cars, hoping to scare them into making a mistake. All it did was earn him a terrified wail, high-pitched and achingly familiar.

A child’s wail.

Dean’s caught up in a memory, vividly remember when Henry first learned how to ride his bike. His feet had gotten knocked off the pedals somehow, and he’d shrieked in terror as his bike went careening down a hill. The hill hadn’t been particularly steep, but it’d been enough to scare Henry and have him crying big, wet tears when he’d finally skidded to a stop on a neighbor’s lawn.

A boy no older than nine (Henry’s age, his mind whispered traitorously) twisted in his mom’s grasp as they ducked behind a mailbox. There was no cover left for them if they wanted to get across the river, at least not until they’d reached the bridge, and they hesitated.

“Looks like we get to have some fun after all.” Tom pulled out his own gun and shot into the air a few times. “Come out and play!” he shouted.

What a fucking tool.

Tom had nearly wasted his whole clip with that display—and likely alerted any person, living or undead, within a three mile radius to their presence. The woman must’ve hoped he was out of bullets, because she sprinted towards the bridge. Or as close to sprinting as one can get while carrying a crying nine-year old. She stumbled, losing a shoe, but kept going.

“Too fucking easy, man,” Tom said.

Dean stood there, paralyzed, until he saw Tom raise his gun. He lunged forward and knocked the barrel up so that the shot went airborne. He grabbed Tom’s arm in a vice, holding it up so he couldn’t try to get another shot off, and waited until the woman was out of range. She looked back briefly, nodded at Dean in thanks, and then disappeared onto the bridge.

“What the fuck, man?” Tom shouted, only able to wiggle out of Dean’s grip now that Dean loosened his hold. He pushed uselessly against Dean’s chest, making Dean stagger back a step. “I had them!”

“And now you don’t,” Dean snapped as he pushed back.

“Fuck!” Tom looked like he was about to pull his hair out. He probably wanted to punch Dean, but he wasn’t stupid enough to try that. Instead, he kept cursing and took out his anger on the car, kicking the wheels, then walking a few paces away only to rush back over and kick it again. It was actually kind of hilarious. While Tom continued his tantrum, Meg pulled at Dean’s jacket and jerked her head for him to follow. They didn’t go far—they were still close enough to hear Tom’s whining—and the whole time Meg dragged him by his sleeve.

“You alright there, Dean-o? A few weeks ago, you wouldn’t have batted an eye at torturing some middle-aged woman. What gives?” Suspicion narrowed Meg’s eyes and she wouldn’t let go of his arm. He couldn’t see her other hand, but he suspected it was inching towards her knife. At least that’s what _he’d_ be doing if their roles were reversed.

Dean’s killed everyone that’s gotten in their way, or at least never stopped the others from pulling the trigger. So he got it, really he did, that this looked weird. Except he didn’t even have to lie about the reason why he let that woman go.

“She was just looking out for her son. You want me to shoot a mom and her kid?”

Meg was quiet for a moment before she relaxed and finally loosened her hold on him. “I always forget you had a kid. About that age, wasn’t he?”

Dean swallowed thickly and nodded. Was Meg remembering the little zombie boy they’d put down? What had Henry looked like when they—

_Stop._

“Well,” Meg said, interrupting his spiraling thoughts and smiling. She actually looked sympathetic, and wouldn’t that be a first. “How ‘bout this? In the future, why don’t you let us young, childless folk handle the mommies and daddies, okay?”

Translation: We’re still going to torture and kill people, even if they have kids. Maybe even if they _are_ kids. Don’t stop us.

Great.

“Go for it.”

Why was he trying to protect these people from Crowley again?

\- - - -

In hindsight, maybe he should’ve guessed Meg didn’t completely buy it.

A few days later, she sauntered over while Dean was digging through his trunk. “Why are you cleaning out your car?”

_Because I need room to store all the weapons and food Benny’s got stashed at his place._

“Bored,” he grunted as he dumped a box of empty liquor bottles onto the pavement. They clattered and rolled around, but thankfully they all survived the rough treatment. The alcohol might be gone, but the bottles themselves were still useful. “Need something to do.”

“Need some help?”

“You wanna take the box into the house, go for it.”

Meg just stood there, hovering over him as Dean shuffled things around in the trunk to make more room and occasionally added junk to the box.

“You know,” Meg said, voice pitched low so it barely traveled to him, “I’ve been watching you since we let that woman and her boy go. You’ve been acting differently. Not as angry… all full of hope and purpose…”

Dean shot her a look. “And what the fuck does _that_ even mean?”

“It means something’s up with you. So either you’re finally banging Benny, or you’re up to something. I never met your boy Castiel, but I’m pretty sure he had you wrapped around his lil’ pinky finger. Dead or not, doubt you’ve moved on from him just yet, so…”

“So you think I’m up to something?” Dean leaned against the trunk and winked. “‘Cuz me and Benny have fooled around, so you might want to rethink your reasoning.”

Meg raised an eyebrow. “We’ll circle back to that later. Maybe discuss some voyeurism options because you two seem like the kinky type. Not relevant, though. You’re planning something, something big… and I want in.”

“Nope,” Dean said as he turned back to cleaning up. “You really really don’t.”

“Look…” She ducked down, bending so that she was practically in the trunk as she forced him to look at her. “Pops might have Tom wrapped around his finger, but some of us can think for ourselves. I don’t mind the killing and the torture and all that, but I’ve been talking to Billie. I know there are other ways to survive out here, and I know you’d probably be up for trying that other way. The tide’s changing, and I gotta look out for me.”

“What? You’d hang your parents and your brother out to dry?”

He probably shouldn’t address anything she was hinting at right now. It could easily be a trap, her probing for information to use against him. Call it morbid curiosity, but he _had_ to know.

Meg straightened up and Dean stepped back so they could actually face each other. “That’s not ideal, but let’s face it. This lil’ community of ours was doomed to fail from the start. You and Benny never fit in. Zachariah is a fucking leech. Uriel will stab any of us in the back the moment he thinks it benefits him. Alastair cares more about hacking people up than protecting the rest of us. He’ll only ever drag the rest of us down, and I don’t like what he’s doing to Tom. My mom…”

“What are you saying?”

“Just that I want to know if I need to vamoose. And I guess I’m asking for fair warning of that.”

Dean’s seen Meg work. He’s seen her with a victim strapped to a chair or bound to a tree. Her sweet smile as she played good cop, lulled people into a false sense of security until they spilled their guts for her.

Saw her spill theirs in turn.

This wasn’t that, though. There was something there he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Concern. Fear. Desperation. Just… something that told him this was different. That he could take her at face value.

He hoped so, anyway, or they were all dead. Crowley’s group was attacking in three days no matter what. Dean sure as fuck didn’t want to be here when it happened, and no matter what type of torture they had planned, he was pretty sure he could keep his mouth shut that long.

Going for nonchalance, he held Meg’s eye as he said, “Well, it’s never a bad idea to have a Plan B.”

“No, it isn’t,” she agreed. She smirked up at him, though it wasn’t nearly as cocky as it usually was. “Good talk. If you don’t mind me, I’ve got a few trunks of my own to clean up.”

He needed these three days to be fucking over with.

 _Now_.

\- - - -

Dean was a bundle of raw nerves. It was a challenge to keep from twitching every time someone entered the room. Every look, every word directed his way poked at the seed of doubt he already had, taunted him with a constant mantra of _they know they know they know._ Only Meg had any reason to guess what was about to happen, the only one who could cast doubt on Dean and Benny, but for whatever reason, she didn’t. She stuck mostly to herself and took up a sudden interest in target practice.

Whatever. As long as she didn’t make waves, Dean didn’t care what she did.

The day before things were supposed to go down, Dean went on a ride in the Impala. Made a big show of sauntering out with a bottle of gin and saying not to wait up for him. Most of them rolled their eyes and let him go. Meg watched him suspiciously, eyes darting to Benny like she couldn’t understand why Dean would leave him behind, but she didn’t comment.

First he went to Benny’s place. As quickly as possible, he packed up the trunk. They’d done a decent job of collecting guns and bullets; not enough to tip the scales for or against Crowley or Azazel, but a respectable amount. They actually had a ton of food. Benny had always assumed they’d be leaving at some point, so he’d been collecting canned goods for a while now. Dean couldn’t fit it all in the trunk, so he fit it in the backseat. If things fell through with Crowley, they’d at least be able to take care of themselves.

The whole time, he kept glancing over his shoulder at the driveway. Benny said he’d run interference, but this more than anything else made him uneasy. If Azazel or any of them happened to stop by, his plan was to play it off as coming to pay his respects to Andrea. If he needed to, he’d shoot whoever it was. Luckily for everyone, no one showed up.

Next stop was their usual crossroads drop off point. Dean left a note for Crowley, letting them know exactly where their supply run tomorrow would be and when they planned on heading out. Then he drove to a back road near the planned ambush. Stashed the Impala on the side of the road, the perfect spot for a quick getaway.

The last part of his plan was just damn tedious.

He had no car but had to get back to the house. He’d seen a few promising ones a mile away, so he jogged in that direction. The first one still had keys in it, so he figured that was his best bet. Quarter tank of gas, too. It smelled like death, though. He opened all the windows to try and air it on, then moved on to the next car.

The second one was a shitty sedan that he had to hot wire. He buckled up, took a swig of gin for courage, then revved the engine.

“This is gonna suck,” Dean grumbled as he took off down the road. He didn’t get the car up to more than twenty, but that’d be more than enough to sting. There were a ton of trees to choose from, so Dean picked one close to the road that wasn’t too big. If he picked one of the fully groan oaks, he had no doubt he’d walk away with no less than a concussion. Assuming he walked away. Crashes with trees were fucking dangerous; he’d seen his fair share of totalled cars from accidents like that back at Singer Salvage.

He blacked out after hitting the tree. It hadn’t completely stopped the car. It looked like he’d uprooted the poor thing before slowly rolling to a stop closer to where the treeline thickened. Dean’s head throbbed and it smelled like blood, so he figured he’d done a convincing job.

It took a while for him to feel up to driving. He had a cut on his forehead and his throat was itchy from the smoke let off by the airbag. The only thing he had to drink was the gin, and it seemed like asking for trouble to drink now. Guess he was going to have to deal with it.

Just his fucking luck, the gas mileage on the car was so shitty the car died on him a couple miles short of the house. Dean groaned and leaned his head against the steering wheel. It took a concentrated effort, but he listed to himself all the ways this day had gone well.

No one caught him at Benny’s.

No zombie issues.

No serious injuries from the car crash.

The car at least made it within walking distance of the house before crapping out on him.

He still had an hour before dark to get back.

Less than twenty four hours and this would all be over.

Feeling better, he grabbed his gun and started walking back. By the time he reached the end of the driveway, dusk had settled into night. The way to the house was all but impossible to see, and only familiarity allowed Dean to walk it.

He sensed more than heard or saw anything dangerous, so he raised his hands. “It’s just me,” he shouted into the darkness. “Crashed my car. Had to find another one.”

Tom stepped out of the shadows, lowering a shotgun and turning on a flashlight. “Shouldn’t drink and drive.”

“Guess they were right.”

“You look pretty bad,” Tom said, gesturing to the dried blood on Dean's forehead. “Want my dad to check it out?”

“Nah. Nothing I can't sleep off.”

Tom shrugged, either believing him or not caring, and went back to his patrol.

When he stumbled inside, Lilith fussed over his cuts and insisted on cleaning them herself. Azazel gave them a cursory look before losing interest and letting his wife handle it.

Meg watched carefully as her mom dabbed rubbing alcohol on his forehead.

“What happened to you?”

“Car accident.” He maintained eye contact with her as he answered. “Crazy, isn't it? So used to zombies and people before shooting at you, you forget that cars are dangerous as fuck.”

She studied him for a moment before nodding. “It's a dangerous world. Guess we always gotta be prepared for it.”

“Guess so.”

When she walked away, Dean figured she understood the warning for what it was.

\- - - -

That night, he dreamed of Castiel.

It’d been so long since he’d looked at the torn and faded photograph of his family and so long since he’d dreamed of him that it physically hurt him to see Cas standing at the stove. Dean collapsed into a chair at the kitchen table, digging his fingers into his palms and trying to hold back tears.

Cas turned off the stove and brought over two plates of pancakes. “Hope you’re hungry.”

“Cas?” Dean asked as he poked at his pancakes. He didn’t even remember picking up his fork but whatever. “How come I never dream about you anymore?”

“You don’t dream about me anymore?” Cas tilted his head to the side and frowned. “I don’t know, Dean. Maybe you don’t need me anymore. Maybe you’re ready to move on.”

“I’ll _always_ need you. I don’t _want_ to move on.” Dean sounded like a petulant child but he really didn’t care.

His husband shrugged, pouring a generous amount of syrup over his stack of pancakes. “Then I don’t know why, Dean. Perhaps seeing me and Henry here no longer brings you the comfort it once did. Or you’ve been too stressed out lately to dream at all. Or…” Cas reached across the table to cover Dean’s hand. Dean really wished he could feel the warmth of it. “Or maybe it doesn’t mean anything. It’s not like we can control our dreams.”

“Babe.” Dean licked his lips. “I’ve done a lot of bad things. I’ve tortured people. _Killed_ them. And you know what else? I kinda liked it. I think I don’t see you in my dreams anymore because I don’t _deserve_ to.”

Castiel looked unimpressed. “It’s the end of the world. Even if you liked it, I know you wouldn’t do it if you didn’t have to.”

“That’s not all I’ve done. I’m betraying the people who helped save my life, all because I don’t like two of them. The others might die too, but do I care?” _Yes, actually, but I’m doing it anyway._

“Azazel and Alastair?” Cas rolled his eyes at Dean’s startled reaction. “I’m not actually Castiel, remember? I’m what your subconscious is projecting for you, so I know all about how Alastair’s made you do all these ‘terrible things’ and how Azazel’s encouraging it. You’re allowed to want out of that. You—”

“I’m cheating on you with Benny,” he blurted out. For some reason, it was so damn important to Dean that he make Cas believe that he was awful. That he wasn’t worth being forgiven.

This time, Castiel didn’t have an immediate answer. “I’m… aware. Dean… You deserve some comfort and happiness in your life. I’m gone and can’t provide it beyond these dreams, and I’m glad you’ve found someone who can offer you that in the real world.”

“Don’t just—”

“Let me finish,” Cas scolded. “If Benny makes you happy in a world that’s otherwise devoid of happiness, I think you should pursue it. If you feel you have to follow through on this deal with Crowley, then do it. But Dean… please be careful. Don’t get hurt, and don’t assume Crowley isn’t going to make the same demands of you that Azazel and Alastair did. You told Cain about the things you’ve done, and he’s clearly told Crowley. Crowley will likely expect more of the same. He’ll expect your loyalty because of this, and if you go live with them, I fear you’ll be no better off than you are now. Worse, even, because you’ll have no outside force ready to help you and Crowley will be aware that you might betray him.”

It was so like Castiel to worry about Dean first and foremost. To simply gloss over all the ways Dean had fucked up and hurt him, and focus instead on what Dean needed to hear.

“Thanks Cas,” he whispered. “I’ll keep that in mind. And I’ll try not to get hurt or killed or anything.”

His husband rewarded him with a beatific smile. “Good. Now wake up, you have a long day ahead of you.”

 


	9. The Great Escape

**** Dean has had his hand in the supply runs for so long, it wasn’t suspicious that he’d picked the area they’d be scouting out today. South of Richmond, near the highway, but on their side of the river, nothing about it set off red flags to anyone.

The hard part was getting enough people out of the house.

They normally went out in groups of three, but today six of them are going out. They need gas and they need food, so Benny suggested two groups head to the same area to divide and conquer. Dean, Tom, and Meg would go off looking for food, while Benny and Uriel would siphon gas from cars on the highway. It wasn’t their usual MO by any means, but it was a completely reasonable plan.

They could do this. They  _ would _ do this.

They pulled the car onto a ramp leading towards the highway. Dean was immediately on edge, way worse than before.

Any and all highways were still a shit show. Not so much because of the cars—that was hit or miss, if you could actually drive around—but because of the zombies. So many people had died fleeing Richmond, and apparently their undead selves were doomed to haunt all the major roads in and out of the city. Bridges and tunnels were the worst, normally filled with zombies crowded together. The lifeless crowds were relatively inactive until something set them off. Whether the crack of thunder, a deer running by, or the sound of an actual human being trying to pass through, the sound would pull them from their stupor long enough to cause trouble, then they’d end up shuffling back into a trance.

Which meant you had to be really fucking quiet or really fucking fast if you wanted to travel on the highways. Quiet wasn’t a big deal if you were picking through cars for supplies. Quiet was fucking impossible if you were planning on ambushing people and shooting them.

Dean parked the car and got out with Uriel and Benny. The three of them rounded to the back of the car to unload the empty gas canisters. Any second now, it’d happen. 

“Hands up and guns down!” called a familiar voice. A warning shot rang out, hitting the ground a few feet away from the car. 

Uriel’s hand went to his gun, but another shot, this one considerably closer to him, had him putting his hands in the air instead.

“What the fuck?” Tom asked as he pushed out of the car.

“Get the fuck back in the car, Tom!” Meg hissed, but he ignored his sister. She edged closer to the door but didn’t follow, obviously torn between wanting the cover and wanting to go after her brother and drag his ass back inside.

“Who’s shooting at us?” Tom demanded. “Show your fucking faces, you dickless cowards!”

“No need to curse, son.” Cain stepped out from behind an overturned eighteen wheeler, gun raised and trained right at Tom. “And no need for anyone to get hurt, either. Hands up where we can see them.” 

“What, is it just you old man?” Tom taunted. “Why don’t  _ you _ put your gun down and maybe  _ we _ won’t shoot you full of bullets. Looks to me like you’re a little out numbered here.”

Dean didn’t know what the fuck Tom was thinking; even if Dean and Benny were on their side, even  _ if _ they had the numbers, no way they could take down Cain without Cain taking out Tom in the process. 

“I’ll admit, five to one aren’t the greatest odds,” Cain said calmly. Tessa and Gadreel stepped out from behind the truck as well, standing on either side of Cain and pointing their guns at Uriel. “How about five to three?”

“I don’t know if you understand how math works,” Tom spit back, “but  _ we’re _ the five and  _ you _ dumbasses are the three. We can take you.”

“Are you now? Strange, I thought the numbers swung in  _ our _ favor.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean—?”

“Do as he says, Tom,” Dean warned. He raised his own gun and trained it on Tom. He really didn’t want to have to pull the trigger. Benny mirrored him, aiming for Uriel instead. 

Tom, apparently completely ignorant of the danger he was in, whipped around to glare at Dean. He looked down the barrel of the gun and looked like he wanted to lunge at Dean and tear out his throat. Dean should know; he’d seen plenty of zombies look at him the same way.

“What did you do?” Tom growled. “What the fuck is going on here?”

“Who gives a shit,” Meg snapped. “If you want to walk the fuck away from this, you will put your hands up. Dean will make sure we get ouf of this in one piece. Isn’t that right, Dean?”

“Absolutely.” If he could, he would. 

Tom was seething. “These your friends from that other camp? You thinking of leaving us to join these fuckers?”

Dean shrugged. “Something like that.”

“Thomas Eugene Masters, put your fucking hands up—”

“You fucking told my dad you were in it. That you were  _ invested _ in this group. And now here you are, with a gun on me like we’re fucking strangers. Like it wasn’t my  _ dad _ who saved your life two years ago—”

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” Dean spit out. “Your dad’s an asshole, and your uncle’s a psycho. You don’t demand loyalty in exchange for saving people. You save people, and that’s how you  _ earn _ loyalty.”

“Alright, Dean.  _ Earn _ my fucking loyalty. Tell me straight. This little coup you’re running… my dad and everyone back home going to walk away from it?”

Dean thought about lying. It’d probably be the best way to calm things down here, but in the end he decided against it. Lying now would only make it worse when Tom found out the truth. He’d rather have it all out in the open and deal with the consequences now.

Especially when the odds were heavily in his favor. Much better than waiting for Tom to come stab him in the back.

“That’s up to them, but knowing your dad like I do, I’m guessing no, he’s not walking away.”

Tom’s face contorted in rage before it smoothed out into the perfect mask of calm acceptance. “Thanks for telling me the truth, Dean. I appreciate that.” Then he reached for his gun. 

After that, it was pure chaos.

In the seconds it took for him to pull it out of the holster and try to aim it at Dean, two shots fired. Dean heard the familiar sound of bullet striking flesh, and Tom stumbled. Meg screamed, that Dean was sure of, but he couldn’t hear it over the echo of gunfire. On his way to the ground, Tom managed to turn and fire a few shots at Cain, prompting a few more answering shots sent his way.

Uriel, Benny, and Dean all dove to find cover; Uriel from Cain’s group, Benny and Dean from Tom and Uriel. Tom was moments from dying, but he still kept shooting. Or maybe getting shot at; with all the noise and being stuck behind a guardrail, Dean couldn’t see much. Uriel was off somewhere to Dean’s right, but he had no doubt Uriel would try to take out as many of Cain’s people as he could. And Dean and Benny if he could.

Dean tried to hold out hope they could still salvage the situation, but then more shots sounded and he knew things were fucked.

Then there was the sound of tires screeching and Dean knew Meg had taken off in the car. Great. At least that was one less person to deal with. Which might have actually meant something a few minutes ago; now the telltale signs of a horde of zombies approaching made Meg’s presence a moot point. 

They’d been too fucking loud and now there were going to pay for it. Staying here was suicide, even  _ if _ whoever was left standing decided to band together against the incoming undead. Not that they would; Uriel would at best pretend before using the distraction to shoot them all in the back. Weighing his options, Dean sprinted at a crawl along the guardrail to get to the nearest exit.

Dean weaved through the columns of cars crowded along an exit. He had get off the damn highway and back to the Impala. Fuck, he hadn’t even told Benny where to meet him in case things went south. What kind of idiot was he?

“Benny!” he shouted. “Get the fuck out of here!” In case Uriel was alive and listening, he didn’t say more. As much as he’d want to get revenge for Tom getting killed, he’d probably prefer to get his hands on Dean and Benny. 

With no other plan than to put as much distance between himself and these zombies as possible, he ran until he couldn’t hear their moans or smell the stench of decay. All he had to do was get to the Impala, drive back here or maybe— 

The farther he got, though, the more unsure of himself he became.

Just what  _ were _ Crowley’s motives.  _ Did _ he want Dean and Benny, or was he just using them to take out the Masters?

He was supposed to be leaving with Cain, but now he was on his own… He’d given Crowley everything, and he had no fucking clue where their group even  _ lived _ . He had no way of contacting them now besides their usual meeting spot, and there was no way he could go back there. If somehow Meg or Uriel escaped and headed over there hoping for a little payback, Dean was fucked. If Crowley wasn’t as truthful as he seemed, Dean was fucked.

There were about a hundred different scenario he could think of, and in each and every single one of them, Dean was fucked.

“Focus,” he whispered to himself. “Focus on what you  _ can _ do.”

He could get the Impala. No one knew where he’d left her. That’d at least get him mobile. Help find Benny faster. Once he had Benny, the two of them could figure out a plan. 

It took longer than it should have to get back to the car. He’d ended up on the wrong side of the highway, and just to be safe he’d circled around the long way. Dean might be confident in his zombie-killing abilities, but he was  _ done _ with being reckless. It was almost dark when he got to that familiar stretch of road. Breathing out a sigh of relief, he’d broken out into a jog.

Except… except that wasn’t the Impala parked along the side of the road. He looked around to check, but this was definitely the place he’d left her. There was that half-dead tree about to collapse and block the road, and up ahead he could see evidence of the car he’d crashed. But that was  _ not _ the Impala.

That was an old Ford pickup truck.

_ His _ fucking old pickup truck. The one he’d definitely left at home on that fateful Tuesday years ago.

No fucking way. 

Forget jogging, Dean sprinted over. The license plate was rusty but still legible. He and Cas had argued for a week over it, Dean begging for vanity license plate that read RCK4EVR (it was the only way he could get over having to buy a friggin pickup truck) but Cas had put his foot down. They’d ended up with a completely reasonable, boring license plate that made Dean sigh dramatically whenever Cas took the Impala and left him the truck.

_ This _ truck. 

This truck had no fucking business being here. This truck was abandoned in Lawrenceville. This truck belonged to a dead man. Dead men didn’t crawl out of their shallow graves to drive seventy miles to haunt their husbands. What the actual fuck was going on?

He forced himself to tear his eyes away from the truck and look around. There had to be  _ some _ explanation that made sense.  _ Some _ clue that would tell him he wasn’t seeing what he thought he was seeing.

Instead he saw the red spray paint, still wet in spots. The lettering was crooked and the paint uneven in spots, but the words were clearly visible. Across one whole lane were the words [COME HOME](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8498833).

It felt like Dean was having a heart attack. His heart was beating too fast, his head hurt, he could barely breathe… He slumped against the side of the truck and tried to think. Tried to come up with a less painful conclusion than the only one he had. 

When he finally got out of his own head, it was dusk. Whatever he was doing, he couldn’t stay out in the open.

Feeling numb, he got to his feet and avoided looking at the red paint. He climbed into the truck, hands automatically going to adjust the mirrors because Cas was always so fucking weird about the placement. Wanted to see two lanes over instead of one.

Shit. The mirrors were definitely set up for Cas. 

Safe inside the sanctuary of his truck—the truck he and Cas had picked out together, the truck they’d had to drive while the Impala was getting repainted, the truck that was stuck on the street most nights because there wasn’t room in the garage for both cars—Dean lost it. He slumped over the steering wheel and cried. 

Cas was alive.

Cas had been  _ here _ .

Dean had fucking  _ abandoned _ his husband two years ago, and Cas still was begging him to come home. 

He passed out like that, too mentally exhausted to give a shit.

\- - - -

Dean woke up with a crick in his neck and his throat sore from crying. Sunlight filtered in through the trees, still soft and cool. Probably still early then. A whole day ahead of him to figure out how the fuck he was supposed to fix things.

Hope was dangerous these days. He’d learned that the hard way before, when he’d desperately held onto the hope that they were alive and okay. Finding out they were dead had gutted him. Torn out his soul and made it so damn easy for Alastair to get his hooks in him… If this turned out to be something other than it appeared, if Dean lost Cas all over again, he knew his heart couldn’t take it.

But there was no denying the proof in front of him. 

If Dean weren't already positive Cas had a hand in the truck showing up, the bottle of water and the Snickers bar in the passenger’s seat solidified it. Even in this shit hole, even two years without seeing each other, and Cas was still trying to take care of him.

Part of him wanted to head south right now. Get home and find Cas (and Henry oh  _ god _ he hoped Henry was okay). Guilt and shame held him back.

What must Cas think of him? 

What must  _ Henry _ think?

After John had left when Dean was a kid, he’d sworn he’d  _ never _ walk out on his own family, and yet he’d ended up doing the same fucking thing. Fuck fuck fuck  _ fuck _ — 

Dean barely kept himself from hyperventilating. As much as he wanted to beat himself up for being such a colossal failure, he’d have plenty of time for that. He had shit to deal with first.

He turned on the ignition and pulled onto the road. Whatever else, he couldn't leave without finding Benny. He'd never forgive himself if he didn't try ( just like he never tried to go back home ), and it offered him the perfect excuse to gather his thoughts before they spiraled out of control.

Why'd he never go back himself? 

What was he going to do about Benny?

What would he  _ tell _ Cas that wouldn't make him hate him?  _ He _ hated himself right now, what chance did he stand with Cas?

His mood was on a downward turn despite his best efforts. There was no way of looking at things that didn’t make him feel like a total fuckup. He needed to find Benny or Cas or really  _ anyone _ just to provide a distraction, to get him out of his own head.

Apparently, that distraction would come in the form of Meg Masters.

Dean hadn’t been driving particularly fast. He had to go slow to keep a lookout for Benny, and some of the roads were easier to maneuver through than others. They were far enough away from the house that Dean and Tom hadn’t cleared this area for easier driving, and it showed. 

That was how Meg found him so easily. She jumped out on the road in front of him, blocking the narrow passage between cars before he could get there and forcing him to pull to a stop.

“Winchester!” she yelled in relief when he stepped out of the car. She ignored the way he slammed the truck door and started limping towards him. It wasn’t a substantial limp, just a slight favoring of her left leg, but it made Dean notice the bruises and scrapes. She was holding left arm, too, cradling it against her chest. She didn’t look like she’d been shot or bitten, though, so whatever had happened to her, it wasn’t related to the highway incident. She’d probably fucked up the car and gotten hurt in the ensuing accident. 

Meg didn’t seem to notice the predatory way he assessed her and the aggressive way he stalked towards her. Instead, she walked forward to meet Dean halfway. “Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes. Thank fuck, thought I’d have to find a way back home on my own. I know you and your buddies probably trashed the place, but I figured—Hey!”

As soon as he’d gotten within reach he’d thrown her against the nearest car.

“Fuck!” she hissed out, trying to grab her left shoulder. “What’s with the manhandling? Not that this isn’t its own brand of hot, but I thought you were only into dick.” Meg tried for her usual bravado, but there was fear behind her eyes. 

“What. The  _ fuck _ . Did you and Tom do?” 

Meg’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “You mean my brother that’s  _ dead _ because of you—?”

“Anything you wanna tell me, huh? About my husband and my boy?” 

He’d expected to need more to get it out of her, but Meg immediately deflated. She looked away and sighed. “We never made it that far south. The further we went, the harder it was. There was this one part of the trip we got maybe a mile a day because the roads were so fucked and there were so many zombies.”

Dean swallowed. “Go on.”

“Tom didn’t want to keep going. So we went shopping. Found a trenchcoat at a store, found some poor dead sap to bloody it up for you. Tom came up with the story.”

His vision flared red. This whole time, Tom and Meg had lied. They’d looked him in the eye and said his husband and his son were  _ dead _ . 

Dean pushed Meg more firmly into the car and she grunted but didn’t protest or try to get away. “ _ Why? _ Why the fuck would you let me think they were dead instead of just telling me the truth?”

“Because they probably were? We would’ve gotten killed trying to find out, and if we told you we’d given up,  _ you _ would’ve gotten killed trying. You’d have taken Benny and Andrea with you and left. Dad wanted you guys to stay, and there was no way that was happening if we came back empty handed… We did us all a favor. Two years later, you’re still kicking. Feel like you should be calling it a win.”

“You see that?” He demanded as he pointed to the truck. He waited for her to take a look then turn back to him in question. “That’s my truck.  _ My _ truck. The fucking title is in my goddamned name. I changed the tires, fixed the windshield, replaced the battery. That’s  _ my _ truck. The one that was at  _ my house _ when all this shit started and now it’s  _ here _ , eighty miles and two fucking years later. My family’s  _ alive _ , and I could’ve been there this whole time—”

Without him noticing, he’d moved a hand to her throat. Not enough to stop her from breathing or even speaking, but enough to show how fucking carefully she needed to watch her next few words. 

She looked up at him with unreadable eyes. She licked her lips before saying, “Then go. It’s over right? I assume Cain’s buddies took out the house while we were busy on the highway. Tom’s dead. I’m fucked. Feel like you’ve gotten your revenge.”

“Or I could kill you right here right now. That seems like way better revenge to me.”

“Sure Dean-o. Get more blood on your hands before you go back to the hubby. Bet he’ll love that.”

Disgusted—with himself or with Meg, he couldn’t say—Dean shoved away and let Meg slump to the ground. “I don’t want revenge,” he spat out. “I want back the last two years with my family.”

“Yeah? And I wanna go home and find my family and house still in one piece. Can’t always get what you want.” The two glared at each other before Meg rolled her eyes. “Look, just go. They’ll think you died in the attack. Tom’s dead and I doubt Uriel made it out of there. I’m the only one from our side who knows you had anything to do with this. You disappear…” She trailed off and let him put it together.

“So… as far as we’re both concerned, the other’s dead.”

“Sounds about right to me.”

Dean ran a hand over his face. Meg theoretically knew where he lived. If she told Azazel about this… It wasn’t likely Azazel was still alive, or that he’d have the resources to invest in coming after Dean, but it was possible. He was putting a lot of faith in Meg.

“How can I trust you?”

“You can’t,” she said simply. “But I figured it was worth a shot.”

Killing her was the safest option. It was the only guarantee in a world without guarantees. His hand reached for his gun, pulled it out and… and he couldn’t do it. 

He could barely tolerate everyone else at the Masters household, but he and Meg got along. They understood each other, became almost friends. They’d have never gotten along without the end of the world literally forcing them together, but it’d happened and here they were. This wasn’t killing some random person, this was killing someone he’d  _ lived _ with. 

There was no denying that Dean enjoyed hurting people more than he should, but it was easy when there was distance between him and the people he killed. He honestly didn’t think he had the stomach to do that to Meg.

So what was the alternative?

Even though Meg knew he’d played a role in her brother’s death, knew he’d turned on her family, she’d still trusted him enough to jump in front of his car for him. She hadn’t ratted him out to her dad, she hadn’t tried to kill him… For better or worse, she’d trusted him. 

Maybe he could return that trust.

“You ever,  _ ever _ come anywhere near my family, I swear I will  _ not _ hesitate to—”

“Cut me into ribbons and bathe in my blood? Yeah, got it.” Meg didn’t take her eyes off of him. “You’re dead, remember? Benny, too. Saw your bodies and everything. What a lovely corpse you made.”

“ _ Fine _ ,” he hissed, finally taking his hands off his gun. “You’re on your own though. I’m not helping you get back and I’m sure as fuck not giving you a gun. Call it payback for not telling me about Cas.”

“Aren’t you my knight in shining armor.” He offered her a hand to help her up, and she reluctantly accepted. “I don’t actually know what happened to Benny, by the way.”

“Figured. You got the fuck out of there pretty quickly.”

“They were  _ your _ friends, and I sure as fuck wasn’t going to stick around for fucking  _ Uriel. _ If he was stupid enough to get his ass into a fight he couldn’t win, that was his own fucking problem. Some of us can do basic math and know when they’re outnumbered.”

Dean snorted a laugh despite himself. Weird kind of world where  _ this _ was the type of thing he found humor in.

“Take care of yourself,” he said. “The house is probably fucked. Crowley never told me what he had planned, but I’m guessing your dad and uncle weren’t giving it up without a fight.”

“Probably not.” Meg sighed. “Think that Abaddon chick needs some followers?”

“Ones who’ve got an axe to grind with Crowley and them? Yeah, probably.”

They stood there, shifting uneasily on their feet. 

“So…” Meg said. “This the part where we kiss good-bye?”

“How ‘bout we just slowly back away and hope for the best?”

This time Meg chuckled. “Sounds good. Good luck with your whole… finding Benny and your family thing.”

“Good luck not dying.”

“Thanks.”

By the time he’d gotten back behind the wheel of the truck, Meg was fiddling around with one of the cars. He nodded to her as he drove by. She flicked him off.

He’d actually kind of miss her.

\- - - -

Finding Benny took a lot more time. Dean had to circle all the way back to the highway, then work his way out from there. There were a lot of zombies in one patch of woods that made Dean want to give them a wide berth; he would’ve missed Benny altogether if Benny hadn’t spotted him driving down the road and called out to him.

“Need some help?” Dean called from the road. He was leaning out of the truck window and trying not to laugh at Benny’s expense.

Because as unfunny as it was to be surrounded by zombies, it was at least a  _ little _ funny that Benny was stuck in a tree while surrounded by zombies.

“Just kill the damn things.” Even from fifty feet away, he could  _ hear _ Benny’s eye roll. 

Dean didn’t want to draw more people or zombies their way, so he ignored his gun and hacked away at the zombies with the tire iron in the back of the truck. It took a lot more time, but at least once he’d drawn them away from the tree, Benny was able to help. 

“Gotta say,” Dean said as he tried to flick blood off of the tire iron, “get quite the upper body workout like this.”

“I’d prefer a gym,” Benny said dryly. 

Exhausted they headed back to the truck. Dean was already crawling into the back to lie down for a bit when he noticed Benny wasn’t following him. Before he could ask what was wrong, Benny pointed at the truck.

“This looks exactly like—”

“My truck?” Dean said. “That’s because it is.”

“... How’d you get it?”

“Found it where I’d stashed Baby. I think… I think maybe Cas…” It sounded too good to be true, and saying it out loud opened him up for ridicule. It was easy to be confident when he was angry and yelling at Meg, but now with Benny, he felt more vulnerable.

“You think they’re still alive,” Benny finished for him.

“I mean… maybe? I know it’s been years…”

“Hey.” Benny’s voice was soft. “We’re still alive and kicking, aren’t we? Cas was never exactly a pushover. I’ve got no doubt he could manage it.”

“Yeah?”

“How else you get your truck back?”

“I don’t know,” Dean admitted. He sat down and leaned against the truck cabin. Staring at the sky was a lot easier than looking Benny in the eye, reading him for signs that he was humoring Dean instead of actually believing what he was saying. “I… I don’t… Should I go back?”

Benny climbed in after Dean and nearly stumbled when he heard that. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

“No?” He kicked Dean hard in the leg before sitting down so he was facing him. “Ow, man. What the fuck—?”

“You just found out your husband’s alive, and you’re actually wondering if you should go find him? I knew you were thick, brother, but this is a whole new level of dumb.”

“But I’m… I’m not a good person anymore. Maybe I never was, but I’m definitely not now. I’ve  _ killed _ people.  _ Tortured _ them. Done so much shit I ain’t proud of and… and…”

“And it was easier when you thought Cas would never have to find out.” Benny put a hand on Dean’s leg. “He’ll understand.”

“No,” Dean croaked. Fuck, he couldn’t cry right now. “I’m not the person he married—”

“Go back home and you can be. You can protect them. Give them back their husband and father.”

Protect them? If there was one thing Dean was good at now, it was killing zombies. And people.

“Maybe they need protecting from me.”

Benny laughed. “You really are an idiot. You and I both know you wouldn’t hurt them. I promise, they’re safer with you there than without and if they had a choice, they’d  _ want _ you there.”

“I’m  _ not _ an idiot.”

“If you thought about not going back for even a  _ second _ , then yes, you are.” Benny dropped the teasing tone. “You’re going back. Don’t try to pretend you aren’t. But I don’t want you thinking you’re walking through a time machine. They’ll have changed, too. They’ll have done things you wouldn’t have expected of them just so they could survive. If you can for forgive them for whatever those things are, then I  _ promise _ you they can forgive you, too.”

There was a long-stretched out silence as Dean considered this and Benny waited patiently. 

“What about…” Dean gestured between them. It’d been hard enough to do it, saying it  _ now _ was impossible.

“Dean,” Benny said with raised eyebrows. “You thought he was dead. Cas’ll understand. If you’d known, you wouldn’t have done anything.” 

“Sure. Totally understandable how I had some other guy’s dick up my ass and was begging for it.”

Benny heaved a sigh. “You didn’t cheat on Cas. He’ll understand that. Not saying he won’t be upset or that you two won’t have things you need to work out, but I think he’ll be happier to have you back.”

“Right.”

“Dean… there are a million and one excuses you could come up with to stay away, but they’re just that: excuses. I know you’re scared, but don’t even pretend you don’t want Cas and Henry back. You’re going. You’re going  _ today _ . And you’re never gonna look back once you do.”

He chewed his bottom lip and didn’t look at Benny. Benny was right, of course. He was fucking  _ terrified _ of facing Cas again. What would Cas see when he looked at him now? Would he still love him?

_ Benny’s right, _ Castiel’s voice nagged at the back of his mind.  _ You’re an idiot if you think anything could make me stop loving you. _

_ You’re not really Cas, _ he pointed out.

_ True. I’m just your subconscious projecting your husband—a man you know better than anyone else in the world—and telling you what you need to hear. But he’ll still love you. _

“I will literally drag you back to Lawrenceville kicking and screaming if I have to.”

Without meaning to, he pictured it. Benny showing up at Dean’s old place with Dean hogtied in the back of the truck. Benny and Castiel shaking their heads and rolling their eyes, whispering together about how difficult Dean was and good thing he had them to look out for him. And once he’d pictured it, Dean couldn’t help laughing.

“Fuck,” Dean said as he wiped tears from his eyes. “You don’t have to do that.”

“You gonna go back?”

“Yeah, I’m going back.”

“Good.” 

This time when they fell silent, it didn’t seem as oppressive as before.

“You know,” Benny said, shielding his eyes to keep the sun out of them, “I’m not going with you. I mean, I will if you need me to, but I ain’t stayin’.”

“Wait, what?”

Benny shrugged. “Doesn’t feel right to interrupt your family gathering or get in the way of the three of you making things work.”

“Now who’s being stupid? What are you gonna do? There’s nothing around here unless you want to deal with Crowley or Abaddon or take your chances and see what Azazel’s place looks like right now. We got a spare bedroom—”

“That’s probably filled with supplies.”

“... Seriously man, what are you going to do on your own?”

It was hard to see with his hand casting half his face in shadow, but it looked like Benny’s eyes twinkled. “Probably head back home, pay Andrea a visit one last time before I make my way three states over.” Then with a wink, he added, “I figure an apocalypse might make my face a little more appealing to your brother.”

“Wait, what?”

“I wanted to leave a while ago, but I stayed ‘cuz you wanted to. There’s nothing for me in Virginia. May as well have a destination in mind if I’m leaving.”

“Seriously?” Dean snorted. “Never took you for the adventurous type. Getting to Kansas ain’t gonna be easy.”

“It wouldn’t be fun if it were.”

Together, the two scavenged the nearby area. Everything they’d planned on taking with them was lost with the Impala, and it didn’t sit right with Dean to let Benny head out empty-handed. They found a car with nearly a full tank of gas, a hammer, and a few cans of soda. Dean gave him his extra gun; it only had five bullets left, but it was better than nothing. Not a great start, but Benny didn’t seem worried. 

“I’m sure I’ll pick up stuff along the way. Bet I can get some stuff from my old place, too.”

“Don’t stay there too long,” Dean warned. “I don’t want Azazel or any of them finding you.”

Benny looked like he was about to object, but he let it pass. “I’ll be careful.”

“You fucking better be.” Dean stood there awkwardly for a minute, toeing the edges of his truck. “Guess this is goodbye, then.” 

The two moved in for a hug. Why was this so damn hard?

“I’m sorry,” Dean said, holding Benny tight. “I kinda feel like a dick ending things—”

“He’s your husband,” Benny said. “It’s not that I don’t care about you, either, but if Andrea were still alive…”

Dean broke the hug and punched Benny’s shoulder. “I’m insulted that you wouldn’t at least consider a threesome.”

“That an invitation?”

“… If this were two years ago, it might be. Don’t know how well that’d go over after me being gone this long.”

“Fair enough.”

“You change your mind, you know where to find me, man.”

“Likewise, brother. Just head west.”

They followed each other back onto the main roads, then headed off in opposite directions. Unlike with Meg, Dean didn’t feel like this would be his last time seeing Benny. For once, he let himself feel hope. 

Smiling to himself, he headed south.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Now would be a good time to read [Part Two: come home](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8498833) :)


	10. Epilogue: Home

**** Dean knew exactly where Tom and Meg stopped looking. The path to Lawrenceville was nearly impossible for miles. Destruction littered the landscape, cars were abandoned everywhere, zombies ran rampant, and nature was quickly reclaiming everything it could. It wasn’t the  _ worst _ Dean had seen, but it was slow going and he could easily imagine Tom getting frustrated and giving up. 

And then, once he got twenty miles south of Richmond, everything cleared up. Not to say that it was  _ easy _ —there was still plenty of decay and overgrowth and all that—but it was similar to what he was used to around Chesterfield. Hell, some of it was even better; he found a nice stretch of road where he got the truck up to seventy before he had to slow down to weave through a herd of zombies. 

Must’ve been because they were getting farther from the city. At least that’s what he assumed; the drive back gave him plenty of time to think, and that was the most likely scenario he could think of. People got trapped in the city or its periphery, abandoning their vehicles when things got bad and forcing the army to intercede. Back when there  _ was _ an army, anyway. Dean was pretty sure he’d seen a tank amongst the rubble of a collapsed bridge, so there was definitely something to his theory.

Dean got as far as Rawlings—farther than he’d been since that fucking Tuesday that started it all—before he ran out of gas. Just as well, he needed to sleep and the roads were hard as hell to navigate by moonlight and headlight alone. He didn’t realize how much he appreciated street lights until they were gone. 

He tossed and turned all night, resting for no more than an hour altogether before he gave up and watched the sun come up. The area had already been picked clean, and Dean had to walk farther than he’d like to find enough gas to get the truck started up again. Not enough to get too far, but hopefully enough to get him home.

Home. Fuck, that was a word he hadn’t used much the past two years. His heart hadn’t left Lawrenceville since then, and every mile that brought him closer had his anxiety spiking. He white knuckled the steering wheel as he pulled into town. When he rounded the corner to his neighborhood, he almost threw up. 

“Pull it together, Winchester,” he scolded himself through grit teeth. 

His street was blocked off by a barricade of cars, staggered to allow someone to walk through but far too close to allow anything bigger than a person. Probably made it difficult for a zombie to walk through, either, now that he thought about it. Dean abandoned the truck there, adding to the makeshift defense. Guess he was walking the rest of the way.

Dean and Cas had gotten a house at the bottom of a hill, right off a cul-de-sac. As he walked down the familiar street, he was surprised both by how little and how much things had changed.

At first glance, the houses seemed about the same as before. None of them were caved in or burnt down or obviously damaged, and none of them showed more than the usual wear and tear you’d expect over a few years. It was only when Dean actually  _ looked  _ at them that the illusion of normalcy was shattered. They were in worse shape than they appeared—no surprise there, they were all probably vacant—but it wasn’t that. The doors were spray painted different colors, some of the windows marked, too. And all the backyards that had fences were filled with what looked like wheat, corn, and—

“Baaaa!” a sheep bleated as it stuck its head out between the wooden planks and stared at him. 

Dean shook his head and smiled to himself. How he’d ever doubted Cas, he had no idea. As far as Dean knew, it was just Cas and Henry, yet they were obviously more self-sufficient than the nine of them had been at the Masters’ place. 

God he loved that man.

There wasn’t much of an incline to the hill, or much of a bend to it either, but it was enough that he couldn’t see his house until he was ten houses away. 

If everything else looked nearly untouched, his own house looked pristine. The fence in the back was higher and extended around to the front of the house, but it wasn’t the patchwork job he’d seen elsewhere in the neighborhood. There were fewer trees than he remembered, but the one with the tire swing he’d put up for Henry was still there. He’d always meant to build a treehouse there, but he’d kept putting it off. Now there wasn’t so much a treehouse as a lookout, a ladder placed against the tree leading up to a platform with a small railing. Probably enough room up there for two people, no more than that. His eyes wandered to the roof next. Solar panels covered every spare inch, and Dean whistled in appreciation. It must’ve taken forever to haul them up there, never mind actually figuring out how to install the damn things. 

And then giggles pulled his eyes to the driveway, and he froze in place.

The garage door was open, and there was the Impala resting inside. Right outside the door was Castiel, standing at the top of the driveway in a mismatched pair of shoes, khaki shorts, and a sunbleached green polo. When they’d first started dating, Dean would tease Cas that he didn’t know who he loved more, Cas or the Impala, and maybe he’d even half meant it. Now there was no contest. He couldn’t care less about the car, not with Castiel  _ right there _ .

Cas was almost unchanged, though he had a lot more scruff than Dean had ever seen on him; it was a legit beard, something Cas had only threatened Dean with but never followed through on in all their years together. He had Dean’s rifle slung over his shoulder and the stupid machete Dean had begged for (and fuck if he wasn’t glad he’d put up such a fuss about it) hanging from his belt. Even from here, he could tell Cas was smiling indulgently at Henry.

And Henry… Dean’s heart was about to burst at seeing him. Fuck if the kid hadn’t grown a damn half foot at least. In that instant, Dean was reminded of when Sam was that age, gangly limbs and hair too long and clothes just a tad too small, unable to keep up with the kid wearing them. Henry had a helmet and pads on as he skateboarded up and down the driveway. Whenever he successfully did a trick, Castiel would clap; whenever Henry fell, Castiel would offer words of encouragement and offer help (which Henry stubbornly refused; damn if the kid wasn’t just like Dean).

Dean stood there, mouth dry and feet rooted to the spot as he listened to the echoes of their laughter fill the empty neighborhood.

After a few minutes, Henry kicked up the board and offered it to Castiel. Cas made a show of rolling his whole head, but he put down his weapons and stepped over to give it a try. Dean was so lost in watching, Cas made two whole laps around the driveway before his brain and his body got on the same page.

Before he consciously made the decision, he was running full speed towards the house, letting gravity do its work to pull him down. 

The sound of his feet hitting the pavement startled both of them. Castiel nearly tripped in alarm and Henry ran for the gun. Dean didn’t slow down, ignored the burn in his lungs and the way his legs protested the effort. Halfway there, Castiel and Henry snapped out of it.

“Dad!” Henry shrieked before he sprinted to meet Dean. As soon as he was close enough, he leapt into Dean’s arms. Dean stumbled but caught him, spinning him around and clutching him close. His son was  _ alive _ . His son was  _ in his arms. _ He’d never done anything to deserve the euphoria he felt in this moment, would never be able to earn it.

“Henry,” he gasped. Tears blurred his vision, but he blinked them away. 

Dean watched Castiel walk over. They stared at each other over Henry’s shoulders for a moment before Cas closed the last few feet and wrapped both of them in a big hug. Leaning over, he pressed a kiss to Dean’s cheek.

“Welcome home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yaay! You made it to the end :) Thank you for reading! I hope the angst was worth it. If you have any guesses/questions about what happened to Meg, Azazel, Alastair or anyone else after they disappear from the story, feel free to mention those in the comments. I know exactly what happened to each of them but since Dean doesn't, it didn't make it into the story.
> 
> Though I will _not_ be answering questions about Sam, Eileen, or Benny. I have it in my head to do a third installment to this story that would incorporate what happened to them. It wouldn't nearly be as long as this story (I hope...) but it's definitely a project I wouldn't mind doing.


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